


Find Me In The Fade

by gethbecomesher



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Archer Lavellan, Dalish, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Halamshiral, Nightmares, Orlais, Red Templars, Skyhold, Slow Burn, Smutty Literature, Solas point of view, The Fade, Wicked Eyes and Wicked Hearts, Winter Palace, seriously when did I start writing fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-24
Updated: 2015-03-06
Packaged: 2018-03-03 05:35:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 35,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2839901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gethbecomesher/pseuds/gethbecomesher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the midst of the Inquisitor's journey, a birthday wish turns out to be more than Lavellan could ever have hoped for. A mysterious illness wreaks havoc on Val Royeaux. The Inquisitor must face demons both real and imagined to fight what's coming.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ma'melana

Allara Lavellan laughed breathlessly, twirling her friend a little too fast and sending her spinning like a top in a whirlwind of rich gold skirts. Josephine eventually stopped spinning and took a moment to right herself, puffing out the crumpled ruffles of her Antivan-tailored dress sleeves with an exasperated, yet humored sigh. Maryden put down her lute and smiled, watching them.

“Do that at Halamshiral and the court will definitely be talking about the Inquisition,” said Josephine, fixing the pleats of gold satin and heavy velvet that hung from her cinched waist.

“I thought that was the point,” said Allara. She was still giggling, remembering the exact point when her booted leg tangled in Josephine’s skirts, turning what would have been a graceful spin into a disaster.

“So it is, Inquisitor, but anyone who says that there’s no such thing as bad publicity has clearly never stood toe to toe with Empress Celene in the midst of the Grand Game,” Josephine eyed Allara from head to toe, brows furrowed, taking tiny dance steps in contemplation of a solution to her problem. “I think it is when you move in to the side, before the spin, you put your foot in such a way -”

“I’m sorry, Josephine. I’m not used to dealing with so many skirts. The Dalish have a more, um, relaxed dress code when we dance,” said Allara, with an impish grin. Maryden blushed furiously, giggling, and Josephine quirked an eyebrow at her elven friend.

“Now that is something that would keep tongues wagging in the Winter Palace for the ages,” said Maryden. She caught her breath from laughing, then looked at Josephine and her hysterics started all over again. Josephine looked at the bard and then back to Allara, her face demanding an explanation.

“Surely you’ve heard the stories, Josie! The Dalish heathens dancing naked in the moonlight? Stealing children and summoning demons with blood magic to drive away the shemlen intruders?” Allara could barely get the sentence out of her mouth before laughing herself. Josephine looked absolutely scandalized.

“You can’t be - but I thought - but those are just stories!” gasped Josephine. Allara smiled inwardly before purposefully darkening her expression and turning on Josephine with a menacing look.

“Some of it’s true,” she said, waggling her eyebrows at the diplomat. Josephine’s eyes widened as a look of terror spread over her face. “Relax, it’s just the naked moonlight dancing part. Solstice ritual,” she finished, shrugging her narrow shoulders in explanation. Josephine relaxed visibly, her expression mockingly admonishing.

“Good one, Inquisitor. I always seem forget what a wit you are,” said Josephine. She smiled at her friend and gestured Maryden to pick up her lute and start at the top. “We really need to get back to work, there is only a month left before the peace talks and you - well, you still need some finishing.” Maryden strummed a few chords, and Josephine stood in starting position with her hand stretched out expectantly, but Allara’s expression dimmed.

“A month left?” she asked in a far away voice.

“Yes, why?” Josephine responded.

“What is the date today?” The Inquisitor stared off into the corner of the room as Josephine searched her brain quickly for the answer.

“The 8th of Pluitanis. Is something wrong, Inquisitor?” asked Josephine. The concern in her deep brown eyes warmed Allara’s heart. She sighed wistfully.

“No, not really. It’s just that tomorrow is _ma’melana_ ,” she said. Josephine tilted her head to the side awaiting explanation. “You might call it my birthday. I’d almost forgotten in all the excitement,” she said. Josephine’s mouth closed with a little pop, her expression confused, right before the fires re-lit in her eyes.

“A party!” she exclaimed gleefully. Allara shook her head forcefully.

“No Josie, do not go to the trouble, we have too much to do!” Allara groaned.

“You can say that again! The cook will have my head for ordering a cake on such short notice,” Josephine looked as if she were mentally checking off some invisible list.

“I’m sorry I mentioned it,” Allara mumbled. Josie turned to her.

“Don’t you see, Inquisitor? This is just what we need right now, not just for our morale, but to show Thedas just how the Inquisition celebrates its Herald,” said Josephine, in an enthusiastic tone that suggested nothing in the world could make more sense. Allara felt her stomach drop to the floor.

“Okay, no. Really Josie, I mean it. Forget I said anything. I’m serious!” the Inquisitor tried to inflect as much force as she could behind her words, but she lost momentum as soon as she saw Josephine’s face.

“But Inquisitor,” said Josephine, purring the last syllable of her title in disappointed protest. Allara sighed heavily.

“Oh Josie, it’s not that I want to spoil your fun, but I’m used to my birthday being - a bit more personal than what you’re suggesting,” Allara tried to be as diplomatic as she could for both their sakes. Josephine looked absolutely mortified.

“Inquisitor, my goodness, how rude of me! I didn’t even ask! What are Dalish birthday traditions?” she asked. Allara’s head bobbled, deciding how much she should tell her friend. “Inquisitor” was still a relatively new title for her, and she was just getting used to being a very public figure. People in towns she’d never visited knew her name and stories of her deeds. That had taken getting used to. She could put up with rumors circling about her, even in Skyhold, but for some reason the thought of her upcoming _melana_ being the talk of Thedas just struck her as wrong.

It wasn’t Josephine’s or anyone else’s fault that they were unfamiliar with Dalish custom, for that was the very nature of Dalish custom. Allara had a vague knowledge of the shemlen birthday tradition. She remembered the last time Josephine surprised a delighted Leliana with a small get together in the main hall for hers. Somehow Leliana had avoided the pageantry that Josephine had threatened her with, but then Leliana was not the Inquisitor, Allara was. What Josie would call her birthday was the anniversary of receiving her vallaslin, and it was a deeply personal clan affair. It involved self-reflection and ritual, exactly the things she had found less and less time for in the wake of the always bustling Inquisition. How could she explain that to Josephine without hurting her feelings?

“I guess I’m just feeling a little homesick right now, Josie. It will pass,” said Allara. She looked at Maryden on her stool, still holding her lute, her face vaguely sad. “Maybe it’s best we continue this later. I appreciate all your help Josie, and thank you for being here Maryden. I’m sure they are missing you at the tavern.” Maryden bowed her head to Allara.

“Always a pleasure, Inquisitor,” said Maryden, as she packed up and left the empty hall. Allara noted with humor that she left through the kitchen, and she could just see the bard deftly sneaking a pastry from under the cook’s nose on her way back to the tavern.

“I will respect your wishes if you insist, Inquisitor, but I hope you know that I am genuinely curious. We do not talk enough of your people. Please know that I am always available for you,” said Josephine. The corner of Allara’s mouth quirked into a half smile.

“I know you are, Josie. I just need some air. It feels unnatural to be somewhere without windows for so long,” said Allara with an animated shudder. She followed Josephine up the long narrow stairway and through the door to her office. “If anyone needs me, I’ll be on a walk. I’ll be back for dinner.” Josephine gave a small curtsy to her friend.

“Until then, Inquisitor,” she said, a secret smile on her lips. Allara felt a vague sense of dread at that, but she trusted her friend. She collected her deerskin coat from the back of a chair in the office and shrugged into it.

 

Allara relished the feel of the frost covered forest floor under her bare feet. She ran simply to run, enjoying the rush of blood and breath that the exercise gave her. It got her mind away from the depressing thought that her _melana_ would be just another cultural casualty of the Inquisition. Allara was never one to hate the shemlen. In fact, much to her clan’s dismay, she found them fascinating. It didn’t help that her elders protested so violently to her interest in things beyond the Dalish, their reactions only stoked her curiosity. It was, after all, that curiosity that made her Clan Lavellan’s first nominee to attend the conclave. Whether that curiosity was more of a blessing or a curse, she was still questioning.

Despite having a healthy curiosity about the larger world, Allara was still Dalish through and through. She was doing her best to adapt to the human dominated society in which she found herself out of necessity and respect, but there were just so many things she found arbitrary or ridiculous. Shoes, for one. Why anyone should care if she wore the confining footwear or not confused her to no end. They made her feet hot and she couldn’t feel for the best footing grips on rocky mountain paths. Josephine had done her best to explain that, to shemlen, Dalish dress made her seem even more off putting than she already was as Inquisitor. It was her diplomatic way of telling her dial back the elf-iness. Eventually, she had arrived at a compromise with Harritt, who had agreed to sole her boots with thin halla leather, rather than the cured hide he usually used.

Shemlen attitudes about where their food came from was a whole other matter all together. They would eat the game she found in the forest no problem, but start gutting a rabbit in front of someone in the “wrong place” and she’d swear they were rabbits themselves. The Dalish considered it respect for the animal they consumed to butcher it and use every part of the creature. The shemlen had no use for deer blood or bone, and balked at the thought that they could be valuable crafting materials. Allara eventually found that the alchemists treasured most of what the kitchen would readily throw away, and what they didn’t need, she made use of.

She crouched still as a statue in the middle of a stream, poised to strike at the next unsuspecting fish that swam past her submerged feet. Her hand twitched at movement in the corner of her eye, but on closer inspection, it was not a fish - it was a reflection. Solas walked around to meet her face, the shadow of an extremely smug grin on his mouth.

“A hunter of the Elvhen, caught unawares by an intruder,” said Solas, clucking his tongue softly at Allara. A corner of her mouth turned up at him despite her desire not to smile. She moved out of the cold water and buried her toes in the long moss at its banks. “Are your thoughts so loud that you did not hear me approach?”

“I did not think when I came out here that I would be the one being stalked,” she said, a twist of humor in her tone. She strode to an elevated tree root and sat down, inviting Solas to join her with a glance, and he did.

“Our dear ambassador tells me that tomorrow is your - what did she call it? Your birthday?” said Solas, chuckling slightly. Allara’s eyebrows shot to the top of her head.

“That was fast,” she said, cursing Josie up and down in her mind.

“She asked me about Dalish customs surrounding such a tradition. I informed her that I did not know, but would do my best to find out,” he said. Allara smiled ruefully, shaking away the friendly concern she saw in his eyes.

“It’s not a big deal, well, I mean it is -”, she started. She took a deep breath and began again. “Tomorrow is _ma’melana_. The 12th year since I’ve had my vallaslin. Clan Lavellan celebrates _melana_ with a feast. If I were at home, I’d hunt all day tomorrow to bring home game for dinner. I’d spend that time reflecting on my year and making goals for the year to come. Upon my return, I would share what I have pondered with the Keeper and we would eat and drink. There is always lots of wine at a _melana_ feast,” she said, smiling fondly at old memories. Solas was looking at her with rapt interest, so much so that it made her blush. He quickly looked away when he realized effect of his gaze.

“What makes you think you can’t have that at Skyhold?” he asked, clearing his throat slightly.

“Everything is a compromise at Skyhold, Solas. The shemlen touch everything, and while I don’t really mind that most times, for this, it’s just different.”

“I understand,” he said softly. She looked up at him again.

“You do?” Solas brushed his naked foot against hers playfully.

“Tell me more about the _melana_ feast,” he said. She smiled reluctantly at him, her eyes traveling from his gaze, to his lips, and then down to their touching feet. She told him of her personal traditions: hiking to the highest ridge near wherever the Lavellan camp was at the time to catch the sunrise before she began her hunt, the way she would pluck the fowl and skin the mammals with the hahren to prep the feast, the children of the clan gathering around her fire for stories as dusk turned to nightfall.

She described the unique flavor intricacies of Lavellan wine, an ancient recipe handed down through the ages. She told him of wild parties and stories of what happened long after the children were put to bed. She spoke and he listened. They both knew it was what she needed. At long last, she sighed wistfully and put her head on his shoulder. Solas hesitated a moment before wrapping his arm around her. She turned her face into his neck and breathed in his scent, it was warm and earthy in her nose.

She didn’t have to ask to know what was in his thoughts. The memory of their kiss shared in the fade had stayed with her ever since that night. The vividness of her time spent with him there was unlike any dream she’d ever had, and the hunger that she’d felt in his kiss was unlike anything she had ever felt. They had not talked about their interaction beyond the morning after she woke up, when he explained that he needed time to think about what had happened. Solas resisted the impulse to act on the attraction between them in the physical world, and she respected his space as she respected him. Allara was nothing if not patient, and she was hunter enough to know that in this case, she would have to wait for her quarry to come to her.

The evening bells rang in the tower as Allara stripped off her muddy leather breeches, searching her clothes chest for suitable dinner attire. She was brushing out the tangles in her thick auburn hair when she heard the door to her chamber open and shut.

“Inquisitor?” Solas called from her doorway. Allara cocked an eyebrow curiously and hopped down from the loft above her bed to greet him.

“Miss me already?” she asked. He smiled at her, distracted.

“Inquisitor, I was - do you have a moment?” he asked, walking out to the balcony. She followed. “What were you like, before the anchor? Has it changed you in any way? Your mind, your morals, your spirit?”

“This is what you came to talk about?” she asked, amused. He stood staring at her, his expression oddly intense. “If it had, do you really think I’d have noticed?”

“No, that’s an excellent point.” He sounded almost delighted, as if it were something he should have thought of himself. “After our talk today, the past few weeks really, I’ve thought - You show a wisdom I’ve not seen since - since my deepest journeys into the ancient memories of the fade. You are not what I expected.” Solas spoke quickly, clipping his syllables as he was prone to do when he was excited. Allara blinked at him, unsure how to respond.

“Sorry to disappoint,” she said simply. It was his turn to blink in surprise.

“It’s not disappointing, it’s -” he rolled his eyes, searching for the words. He seemed so inspired with whatever it was he came to say, Allara couldn’t help but smile. “Most people are predictable. You have shown subtlety in your actions. A wisdom that goes against everything I expected. If the Dalish could raise someone with a spirit like yours, have I misjudged them?” Allara took a moment. Was he asking this? Solas had taken every opportunity to explain to her how the Dalish were wrong, how they only knew half-truths based on his experiences in the fade. At times, his revelations annoyed her, and at times she found them fascinating. They had always been the subject of the mostly friendly rivalry they bantered about on their journeys across Thedas in the name of the Inquisition. Had she truly done something that had turned his eye favorably upon her people? On the other hand, she didn’t truly know what he was asking her.

“The Dalish didn’t make me like this, the decisions were mine,” she said slowly, reading his face as she spoke. His eyes lit up at her answer.

“Yes! You are wise to give yourself that due. Although the Dalish, in their fashion, may have guided you. Perhaps that is it.” He nodded to himself, coming to some unspoken conclusion. “It must be. Most people act with so little understanding of the world, but not you.” Allara looked questioningly into his eyes, searching for what he was getting at. Floors below, the dinner bell rang out into Skyhold’s courtyard.

“What does this mean, Solas?” she asked. His smile was small, and uncharacteristically shy.

“It means I have not forgotten about the kiss,” he said. He took her hands in his, staring at them, running his thumb over the backs of her long fingers. Allara felt a rush of joy. Adrenaline burned in her veins and her heartbeat thudded in her ears so loudly she was sure Solas heard it. She swallowed hard, determined to keep her cool. She closed the distance between them, moving her hands up the length of his chest, feeling the coarse weave of his shirt brushing against her fingers.

“Good,” she said simply, gazing up at him, all but daring him to kiss her again, this time in the physical world. He leaned toward her, eyes closed, his lips so close she could feel his warmth, before he opened his eyes again, and looked longingly into her face. He shook his head so minutely that if Allara weren’t so in tuned with his emotions, she would have missed it. He moved to turn away. Allara knew her quarry was hers if she would take him. Solas stopped at the gentle touch at his elbow. “Don’t go,” she breathed. He sighed deeply.

“It would be kinder in the long run, but losing you would -” he tuned back to her, his eyes searching hers as if for a sign to stop. Allara looked at him, her lips slightly parted, searching for something to say. Before she found her voice, his mouth was on hers, his tongue hungrily searching out the words they’d both left unspoken. She staggered under the force of his kiss until her back met the balcony railing. Solas wrapped a hand around her, drawing her closer to him, but still reveling in the danger of their proximity to the edge of the balcony. His breath was hot and fast on her face and neck. He calmed himself, breathing her scent deeply. She smelled of a forest after a storm, and he closed his eyes, his face buried in her neck, savoring her. At length, he drew himself away.

“ _Ar lath ma, vhenan_ ,” he said, his voice hoarse. He turned and left, Allara watching his feet as he went. She had begun to wonder who was the predator and who was the prey.


	2. Just Before Dawn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solas and Lavellan have at least part of "the talk". Lavellan gets an unexpected vacation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sincere thanks for your encouragement!

Allara woke just before dawn, her eyelids heavy with sleep and bliss. Solas’ bare forearm was wrapped around her waist, and she covered it with hers, lacing her fingers with his. She leaned back into the embrace of his body, which had conformed to her shape in their sleep. She felt the skin of his chest hot against her naked back. Allara had expected him to wake at this, but he did not stir. Slowly, reluctantly, she shifted toward the edge of the bed, doing her best not to disturb his sleep. She turned to look at him, peacefully asleep, he had not moved.

She stood before the ornate stained glass double doors in her quarters which overlooked Skyhold’s snow-covered valley, savoring a deep stretch and a hearty yawn. The warm glow of dawn was beginning to rise up over the tops of the mountains. The quality of the light eerie and beautiful. Allara was no mage, but she knew magic when she saw it, and the moment just before the break of the dawn over the horizon was nothing if not pure magic. It was her favorite time of day and she yearned to be outside where she might more actively observe her surroundings.

“You are so beautiful,” came Solas’ voice from behind her. She was momentarily very aware of her nakedness. If she had been less comfortable, she would have blushed. As it was, she was glad of the night she spent with him, and the state in which they found their relationship. She turned to face him, a silhouette against the rising dawn. Solas rose and crossed the room to her. He stood behind her with his long-fingered hands splayed out on her shoulders, squeezing gently. His hands were pleasantly warm and he was skilled at working out the knotted muscles between her shoulder blades. His breath, soft at the back of her neck, made her heart flutter. The catch in her breath made Solas pause, and he wrapped his arms around her, drawing her close against him. She felt the skin to skin contact all the way down her body, which did nothing for her composure. She was no stranger to the occasional dalliance, she was a grown woman after all, but she had never been faced with the prospect of sex having any real meaning. Her blossoming feelings for Solas both surprised and frightened her, and the thought of being with him like that frightened her even more. With him, nothing was casual, and she wasn’t sure she was ready to fall.

 

The memory of the past evening stirred in her thoughts. Solas had been on her balcony when she returned from dinner. The look on his face was unreadable. She smiled at him knowingly, and joined him outside. She stood close, looking up at him, daring him to kiss her as she had done the last time they had shared that space together. This time he did not surrender.

“I don’t know how this is going to work, _vhenan_ ,” he admitted to her, his brows furrowed and his voice troubled.

“Hey, I’m here,” she said, guiding his face gently with her hand to meet her gaze. “We’ll work it out together.”

“I can’t be with you like you want. Not that way, not yet,” he said, his mouth curving downward as the words left him. She knew he spoke of sex, and the combination of worry and relief left her shaken.

“What do you know about what I want?” asked Allara.

“I know some things,” he said.

“I have everything I want right now,” she said as she took his hands in hers, squeezing lightly. He returned the gesture, meeting her gaze.

“You are sure? It’s okay that this be enough for now?”

“Solas I - I’ve been with my share of people. If sex was all I wanted, I could get it from anyone. You’re - of _course_ you’re enough,” she finished, exhaling sharply. The look in his eyes made her heart melt.

“You never cease to amaze me, _vhenan_ ,” he said. He drew her close against him, burying his face in her hair, breathing deeply the scent of hair, pine, and lavender.

 

Allara smiled and squeezed Solas’ hand at her naked shoulder. He released her and she turned around in his embrace. The growing light of dawn shone upon his face. He was beautiful, his features stood against the dark background of her chambers like a beacon. Allara’s eyes came to rest at the hollow of his collarbone and she became lost in the thought of how he might taste at that moment. She shook away the thought with a rueful grin. His matching expression told her his mind was on a similar path. He cleared his throat.

“I know you didn’t hike to see it, but how’s this for a sun rise?” he asked. Allara looked over her shoulder at the dawn, and then back at him with a contented smile.

“It’s okay, I guess,” she said, considering the breathtaking vista behind her. Solas chuckled softly.

“You should get dressed if you’re to have any hope of getting out there in time to catch any game,” he said. Allara’s eyebrows knit together in confusion.

“What do you mean?”

“Unless you’d like a vegetarian _melana_ feast,” he offered casually. Allara’s face lit up.

“What? Do you mean? No. Really? How?!” she sputtered. Solas laughed outright at her realization.

“I spoke with the advisors last night,” he said.

“I told Josie very specifically not to -” she started. Solas hushed her with a kiss on her forehead.

“There’s nothing that can’t wait for a day while we have this,” he said. “It will be small, intimate. I promise.” Solas pulled her close against him again, his fingers tracing a pattern at the small of her back.

“I -” she began, searching for words. Solas put her at arm’s length once more to better judge her expression.

“If you’d really rather not -” he said, the concern evident in his face.

“Come with me,” she said, a sudden smile lighting her eyes. He blinked, taken aback.

“I thought this was meant to be a solitary occasion,” he said.

“Who’s party is this?” she quipped.

“As you command, Inquisitor,” he bowed playfully.

“Shut up,” she laughed. Allara leaped back toward the bed to scurry up to the loft where she kept her gear. She tossed the crumpled bundle of Solas’ clothes at him and he caught it as it thudded against his chest.


	3. The Hunt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The hunt is on. Lavellan and Solas venture out into Skyhold's woods for game for her birthday feast. Solas presents her with an unexpected gift.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think! Thanks for reading!

It was still early by the time Solas and Allara reached the heavily wooded forest outside Skyhold. The air was crisp in her nose and throat and Allara savored the brisk winter chill on her exposed skin. The humans had an obsession with heated rooms that she would never quite understand. She found fires in every room to be stifling. Luckily, she had come to an understanding with the young man who was in charge of tending the hearth in her personal quarters. If there was a fire to be had, she would be the one to light it. At first the boy protested, but as soon as the silver coin appeared between Allara’s fingers, he agreed. Besides, thought Allara with a smile, now that she had another body to warm her bed, she hardly needed a fire going as well.

Eventually, the two elves came to a clearing in the dense woods. Deer tracks were broken into the snow’s frozen crust. They were recent. Solas smiled at the enthusiastic glee in Allara’s face; the hunt was on. She put a hand on his chest, stopping him for a moment.

“The deer, or whatever we find today,” she started, whispering. He quirked his eyebrows at her. “Don’t use ice, we’ll never get it thawed in time to cook tonight.” Solas’ expression of polite interest turned into one of wry humor.

“Inquisitor, are you instructing me on how to hunt?” he asked. Something in his voice made her shudder; with delight, terror, or anticipation she could not tell. 

“Of course not, hahren,” she said, smiling sweetly. “And if you could, try not to singe the fur, it leaves such an awful aftertaste.” The wry humor in his expression turned dark, and Allara winked at him, suspecting she would somehow be paying for her impudence later on. The thought excited her almost as much as the thrill of the hunt.

Allara strung her bow, notched an arrow, and held it at the ready. Solas followed closely behind her. Their senses both in tune with their surroundings, they traveled around the perimeter of the clearing soundlessly. At the far side, Allara spotted a large buck grazing alone on a solitary patch of green grass that had sprouted through the snow. Solas, reading her body language, moved to flank their prey more silently than she could have believed. Allara knelt on a rock to keep the snow from crunching and, holding her breath, she drew the bowstring to her ear. With a silent prayer to Andruil, she let her arrow fly. It sunk into the buck’s chest, and in half a second, Solas was behind the beast, drawing a dagger across its throat to stop its bleating from echoing across the valley. Solas grinned savagely at her, covered in the beast’s blood, a job well done. 

They spent the morning and into the early afternoon in much the same fashion, creeping silently through Skyhold’s woods, eyes and ears open for traces of game, moving as one when it was time to take down their prey. Allara was satisfied when they had dropped and strung two bucks, three does, and a brace of rabbits. Much more than was required for an intimate celebration. “Whatever doesn’t get eaten tonight will go into the stores,” she said with a carefree shrug. The truth was that she was enjoying herself too much to return to Skyhold just yet, and she suspected Solas knew that. It was the first time in a long time that she was able to let go and just do what she was good at without having to carry the baggage of her title and her cause. When Solas looked at her crouching in the bushes, bow in hand, waiting for her prey to enter her sights, he saw who she was before the anchor. He considered the question he had asked on her balcony the day before answered.

They had loaded up their game in the wheeled cart for the journey back to Skyhold when Solas stopped her with a soft touch on her elbow.

“We have some time,” he said. “Sit with me.” He folded himself down to sit cross-legged on a rocky outcropping that overlooked Skyhold’s ramparts just over the top of the tree line. Allara joined him, dangling her bare feet over the edge of the rock. She looked at their full wagon, felt the tiredness in her muscles, and gave a satisfied sigh. Solas smiled at that, and dug into the pocket of his fur-lined coat. He came up with a small package wrapped in parchment and tied up with gold ribbon that Allara knew she had seen somewhere before. Solas presented the parcel to her. She took it, and rolled it around in her hands before looking up at him quizzically. “Many cultures give gifts on occasions like this, do they not?” he said in response to her look. 

“Well, after the vallaslin is first applied, the first melana, it’s customary for the clan to give gifts to the new adult. Usually hunting supplies or gear, stuff like that. The mages get new staffs, it’s a big thing. I haven’t received gifts for this since then,” she mumbled quickly to the package in her hands.

“Lavellan,” Solas said sharply. Her head snapped up at him. “You’re babbling.” She smirked and returned her attention to the package. “Are you going to open it?” The impatience in his voice broadened Allara’s grin. She undid the ribbon around the parchment and it fell into the hollow of her crossed legs. The stiff parchment crinkled under her fingers as she unrolled it. At long last, a pendant strung on a silver chain fell out of the last fold into the palm of her hand. She gasped as it hit her skin; she felt power in it and it made the mark on her hand tingle. She looked from the pendant to Solas. It was obvious the pendant was old, ancient even. Allara recognized the material, or she thought she did. It had the ridges and the creamy translucent quality of halla antler, but instead of an ivory color, it was golden and opalescent. It was flat, rectangular, and about the same length and width as her index finger. She could not read the ancient Elven writing inscribed upon it. She exhaled slowly.

“Wha - I - I don’t know what to say,” she breathed. Solas took the necklace from her hands and, leaning toward her, his fingers brushing against her cheek, clasped it around her neck. Allara covered the pendant with her marked hand over her chest. “It’s beautiful.”

“And practical,” said Solas. Allara gave a faint “hmm” of interest, absorbed with tracing the Elven writing with her finger. “You are no mage, Allara, yet I have seen you walk the Fade as comfortably as any scholar on the subject. I believe the anchor’s magic explains that in part, but I also believe your will has a lot to do with it. This pendant is - a focus, of a kind.” She looked up at that.

“You mean this will help me navigate the Fade better? Like you?” The look in her eyes was so hopeful, and Solas chuckled softly. 

“It will help. The pendant is old and has been in my possession for a long time. It is bound to my will. You will be able to use it to channel your focus better, so that you may find me in the Fade more easily. You uh, mentioned that you were interested in learning more about the Fade, and -” his words were cut off by the force of Allara’s embrace. She had thrown herself across his lap to hug him around the neck.

“Thank you,” she whispered into his ear. Solas smoothed her hair back from her face and kissed her temple. She relaxes against him, turning her body so that she sat in his lap, leaning her back against his chest. Looking up into the sky, she let out a deep sigh. 

“I should mention that it works both ways,” he said. 

“I would be disappointed if it didn’t,” she replied. They sat together for a while, content to watch the clouds pass. Solas ran his fingers through Allara’s hair. The sensation of his touch on her scalp could have made her purr like one of the kitchen’s cats. 

“Shall we try it out?” he asked. Allara felt the vibrations of his voice in his chest. She smiled sleepily. 

“I was just thinking that I could go for a nap,” she said.


	4. Hide and Seek

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lavellan learns some tricks of the Fade. Solas knows just how to motivate her to learn.

Allara closed her eyes, hearing the sound of the wind, the far-away cawing of Leliana’s crows, and the steady thumping of Solas’ heartbeat, so close to where her ear touched his chest. She concentrated on his rhythm, drowning out other distractions. It was like mediation, Solas said, the art of Fade walking. A few times, she felt herself slip into sleep too quickly and startled nervously with a little shake. Solas squeezed her arm reassuringly, easing her back into her trance like state. She knew he could slip in and out of the Fade as easily as entering a room, and it was more than comforting to know he was there guiding her.

The Fade was a mage’s domain, but she had always been curious about it, as she had always been curious about most things she was told were “not for her”. That it was the realm of demons and nightmares simultaneously thrilled and terrified her, but she was put mostly at ease by her trust in Solas and his enthusiasm about showing her his world. Sometimes it seemed like all he cared about was the Fade and the memories and friends he would visit there. At times, his temper when his attention was drawn away from that other plane made Allara feel inadequate, but she could understand missing what was familiar. So far, the biggest benefit of Solas’ infatuation had been finding an interested party with whom she could share her dreams. He always had insight into what the Fade had shown her while she slept. She trusted him with her life every day, she could make the stretch to trust him with her mind or whatever part of her would walk in the Fade. Besides, she was very close to trusting him with her heart; and that was something she’d never given anyone.

At last she reached that narrow ledge where she could either fall into deep sleep, jolt herself out of it, or go on to walk the Fade. It felt almost like falling, but while grounded at the same time. As if the ground she felt under her body was moving swiftly downward. She stayed her course, concentrating as Solas had taught her on her outside grounding, the now faint rhythm of his heartbeat, while venturing forward with her mind. She visualized Solas’ face, he was smiling slightly, as if amused by some secret joke. His face brought up memories of the forest, the afternoon by the stream where he had snuck up on her, this very morning hunting Skyhold’s game, trekking through the Hinterlands the first time she had seen something in his eyes that suggested it was more than a mere passing glance.

It felt like she had opened her eyes, but she knew that she hadn’t, not really. The day was bright and the sun was warm on her skin where it filtered through the dense forest canopy. She spun, trying to catch her bearings. She had found a forest, but which one? The trees looked similar to the pine outside Skyhold, but when she blinked, they were all the old growth redwood of the Northern Free Marches. She blinked again and she stood in a leafless maple grove, a crisp wintery breeze whipping through her hair. She shut her eyes tight and tried to focus on one thing, anything, but panic was already rising. The forest changed faster and faster, as if her mind was flipping through a book of images and the world around her was recreating the environments. Her stomach dropped and her heart started to race. What had she done wrong? Was she lost? Was she stuck? Would she be able to wake up from this or would she wander this chameleon forest until the body she left in the physical world died?

From the mottled grey sky, Allara spotted something falling. At first it looked like a bird, but as it approached the ground at her feet, it began to swirl in the breeze. The world around her stood still for the moment. It was parchment. More than that, it was the parchment wrapping from Solas’ gift to her. She reached to touch the pendant at her throat, which calmed her slightly. She picked up the parchment and unfolded it. “Focus” was the solitary word that was scrawled upon it in Solas’ flowing script. She closed her eyes and took a deep, slow breath in and out. She focused on his note, pictured him writing it. The thought occurred to Allara that he might not have written it. This was the Fade, after all, anything was possible. Allara shook herself. Regardless of where the note came from, the intention behind it was obvious; either he sent it or this was her will exerting itself to achieve her goal. The pendant at her throat seemed somehow warmer than her body. Concentrating on its form made putting her thoughts in order easier. She could feel the composure returning to her like a heavy blanket settling around her shoulders. 

When she opened her eyes again she staggered, thinking for a moment that she was awake. But she couldn’t be awake. She stood in front of the Chantry at Haven, the Chantry which she knew very well to be destroyed. Somehow she could feel that Solas was there. It was the smallest flicker at the back of her mind, but she knew it to be true. The thought of Solas in Haven, the last time she stood there, she, they -

“You have done well,” said an approving voice from behind her. She turned to see Solas striding casually up to her. Allara made a noise and she wasn’t entirely sure whether it was a laugh or a sigh.

“I did it?” she sounded more confused than victorious. Solas laughed, leaning upon his staff. 

“Don’t sound so surprised, lethallin. I never lost faith in you.” The hint of a smile that touched the corners of his mouth made Allara’s heart leap. She coughed, attempting to diffuse the intensity of her reaction.

“It was a little rocky for a moment there. Why was it so easy the first time we met in the Fade?” she asked. Solas started off down the chantry steps, beckoning her to follow with a small gesture of his staff and a tilt of his head. She walked beside him as they made their way around the small ghost of a town that was once Haven.

“It’s simple. I guided you here the first time,” Solas spoke as if it were the simplest explanation he could give. Allara, after considering his words for a moment, accepted them.

“You can do that?” she asked incredulously. 

“I believe that you will be able to as well, with a little more training. You must learn to trust your instincts, especially here,” he said.

“Because of demons?” She stated her question as an answer. Solas smirked, his eyes crinkling.

“In part. This is the Fade, lethallin. It is infinite. It is filled with beings benevolent and malicious, charming and terrifying. They are how their natures dictate them to be. It is up to you, as a traveler through this realm, to decide what power you give them.” Allara’s mind strayed, thinking of the implications of his words.

“So you’re saying mages could simply will themselves to not become possessed?” she asked. They came to a stop next to the fire pit that Varric had tended almost exclusively when the Inquisition called Haven its home. Solas raised an eyebrow at her question.

“I am a mage. Have you seen me become possessed against my will?” Allara made a face at him.

“Well no, but you’re - you’re you.” Solas laughed at that. 

“I am unsure if that was meant in jest or high praise,” he said. Allara opened her mouth in protest. He put one long, cool finger against her lips before she could speak. “I would not know the difference. You used the pendant to focus once, so you are familiar with how that feels.” Allara furrowed her brows at him, shaking her head.

“Yes, I think so,” she started. “But -”

“Good,” he said simply. Instantly he had closed the distance between them, cradling Allara’s face in his hands for one tender moment before crushing her lips with his in a sudden, hungry kiss. The swiftness of the gesture knocked Allara off her feet, as did Solas when he scooped her up and spun her around, landing small pecks on her nose and her laughing mouth when he put her down again. Allara could feel the excitement rising in her, and her fingertips tingled with anticipation. She grabbed the fur collar of his robes, drawing him close, and pulled his mouth down to hers. He hovered above her parted lips, feeling her breath against him, rapid and wanting. He grinned and slowly brushed his lips and the tip of his nose against her cheek as he bent to whisper in her ear. “Then finding me this time will be that much easier,” he whispered, and he disappeared.

Stunned, Allara staggered, catching herself before she actually stumbled. He was gone, just disappeared in thin air. She spun, searching for him, but Solas was nowhere to be seen. She knew exactly what he meant for her to do, and she let out an audible groan that was equal parts academic and sexual frustration. She touched the pendant at her throat, it was still warm. She attempted to clear her mind as she knew she needed to, but it was quickly overrun. Solas had some twisted ideas of fun, and Allara intended to have words with him over this game of Fade hide and seek. She blushed hotly, and shook out her body as if she were loosening up in preparation for a fight. What she needed was a long swim in a cold lake. She shut her eyes tightly, shaking her head at the void, hoping it would do something to make her focus stronger or her will more persuasive to the Fade. Her thoughts began to unify, and she could have sworn she felt them being dragged off as if by a strong ocean current. She visualized jumping into a crisp, blue body of water, the relief and dust of the day releasing into the water’s chilly embrace.

Allara felt the ground shift slightly under her, and she opened her eyes with a start. Above her head a gull screamed into the cloudy grey sky over the deep blue waters of Lake Calenhad. She stood on the docks overlooking the vast lake. A dwarven merchant boat knocked against the pier at her feet. She knew the place passably well, but she recalled no significant memory that would pull her there. Still, she felt the vague sense of correctness in her destination. Solas was there somewhere, she had found the right place. She began to walk, exploring the area. Unlike the last time she visited the Lake Calenhad docks in Redcliffe Village, this time the place was unpopulated. It was serene and sleepy without the bustle of the town marketplace. She spotted smoke coming from a fire pit in the middle of town and she headed toward it. 

Sure enough, Solas sat smugly, stretched before the small campfire in the middle of Redcliffe Village, looking like he’d been waiting for ages. His grin was insufferable, and Allara intended to let him know. She marched up to him like a thundercloud, but something about his expression made her face break into a smile. She directed a wry glance at him and he shrugged innocently and gestured around him.

“Not bad. You were quicker than I thought you would be,” he said. “You must have been well motivated.” He added that with a wink so subtle that she had to wonder if she saw it at all. He stood up, and moved to Allara’s side. He stood looking out at the town and she followed his gaze.

“Why here?” she asked. His mouth twisted up in a smile of approval. 

“It was somewhere we had been together in recent memory. Not as significant as Haven, but still memorable.” The corner of his mouth twitched. “You snuck out of camp that night to swim in the moonlight. You thought no one saw you,” he almost whispered the last part, but Allara heard every word clearly.

“Were you spying on me?” she asked in scandalized amusement. Solas smirked, gave a small playful shrug, and casually grabbed her hand, lacing his fingers with hers. Allara’s heart leapt all the way into her throat. They walked slowly, hand in hand, around Redcliffe Village’s empty town square.

“We have done a lot of good for the people here. It is gratifying to know that we helped when the Ferelden throne failed them. That queen is in over her head,” said Solas, his eyes darkening with angry memories. He gave Allara’s hand a small squeeze. “I digress. I came here to tell you that it was here when I began to realize who you were. That you were so - that you could be - that you were unique.” He spoke quickly, as if his tongue were trying to catch up with his thoughts. Allara hopped up on a garden wall to sit and nodded at the space next to her. Solas did not hop up beside her, but rather nestled himself between her legs, burying his face in her chest. She could feel his breath hot against her skin. She rested her cheek against the top of his head for a moment, feeling the smooth skin of his scalp warm against her face. She brushed her lips gently across the top of his head as she sat up.

“Solas, I -” she started. He looked up at her, his expression cutting off her words. His eyes finished her thought for her as he folded his hands at the back of her neck and pulled her mouth down to his. He kissed her thoroughly, his tongue exploring, a soft groan sounding deep in his throat as Allara’s tongue met his. He deepened the kiss, his fingers twisting in her hair at the back of her neck. Allara broke away, her heart buzzing with emotion, anticipation, and adrenaline. She relished Solas’ reluctance to let her go with smug satisfaction.

She slid down the wall to stand on his level, wrapping her arms around his waist and drawing him close to her. He stood, his feet planted on either side of hers, his body pressing hers into the garden wall. Allara slid her hands inside the opening of his coat, twining them around his back, pulling him still tighter against her. She could feel a rumbling in his chest that she would have sworn was almost a growl. He held her face in his hands, tracing the lines of her vallaslin with his thumbs, a mischievous smile blossoming on his lips. He leaned into her, bending her back over the wall, his face hovering just over hers. Allara tilted her mouth up to him and he dodged her kiss; she could feel the inaudible chuckle in his chest. Her eyes opened wide with the realization of his intentions. “Don’t. You. Dare,” she growled, her fists balling the back of his rough tunic into bunches. Solas bared his teeth in a savage grin. He disappeared so suddenly that the absence of his weight on top of her made Allara stumble. She cursed loudly and at length, her words echoing off the walls of the empty buildings. “The Fade is bullshit!” she called, as if she thought some offended spirit would step out of the shadows to correct her.

Her hands leapt to the pendant at her throat, her whole body vibrating with unslaked lust and frustration. If she could manage to channel her focus now, she was convinced she could do it in any situation. She shook her head, exasperated and annoyed, realizing that was exactly Solas’ intention. She cast her thoughts out into the strange abyss of the Fade, waiting for the now familiar pull the pendant provided for her. She concentrated on him, still vaguely feeling the physical world presence of his heart beat, though it had been constant in her ears for so long that she had to will herself to hear it. She wondered where he would choose, what he would conjure for her when she found him again. Images flashed in her mind, and she found that each image had glimpses of emotion related to it. Was this all her or a trick of the Fade? Suddenly her mind latched onto one particular thought, an image, a feeling as if it were somehow more true than anything else in that moment. She cast it out like her thoughts, shutting her eyes tight in concentration. She felt the current whisk it away, and her heart leapt in victory. The ground beneath her feet swayed and when she stepped forward, her bare foot landed on long, soft grass.

Enormous, ancient trees reached endlessly up to the sky, their branches mingling, creating a shady canopy over a green, grassy meadow. Grey and white moss-covered stone shot up out of the grass like broken teeth. It was no geographic formation, it was a ruin. Allara walked up to the nearest stone and laid a hand on its cool, rough surface. There was a power there, she could feel it in the stone and the air. Was it merely a Fade memory, or was she sensing something deeper? The air was unnaturally still, yet calming. She felt as if she were visiting the tomb of a relative who had died peacefully. She looked around at the crumbling stones and wondered if that wasn’t exactly what she was doing.

“Do you feel it?” asked Solas. Allara looked over her shoulder to see him sitting cross-legged atop one of the fallen stones. 

“The air, it’s tingling,” Allara murmured. She waved her fingers in front of her face, marveling at the sensation.

“It is the veil,” he said. He stood and moved to Allara, joining her as she walked the perimeter of the old stone.

“What is this place?” she asked. A shadow passed over his face for just a moment before his eyes met hers.

“It is a place important to me. I wanted to see if you could locate me if I were somewhere you had never been. You did, and much quicker than I expected.” Solas took her hand and led her to a patch of soft grass encircled in eroded stone. Allara studied the pattern of the stone in the ground. It could once have been a house, or perhaps a tower, judging from the circle of worn brick barely visible through the grass and leaves.

“It’s beautiful here,” she said. 

“Hmm, yes,” he said, lost in thought. He sat in the grass and looked up at her invitingly. She smiled and sat beside him, linking her arm with his and resting her head on his shoulder. “Allara,” he started. She lifted her head to look at him. His face was a mixture of shyness and hopefulness that would have been surprising from him anywhere else, but Solas was different in the Fade. She saw an entirely new side to him here and she was still processing how she felt. It was a process that almost entirely bypassed her brain. “The way you’ve navigated the Fade, learned to manipulate it, all in such a short amount of time - there are mages who dedicate lifetimes to accomplish what you managed to achieve in minutes.” Allara felt herself blush at his high praise.

“It’s the anchor,” she said, staring at her marked hand. He took her hand, running his thumb over the glowing scar in her palm.

“It is more than the anchor, it’s you,” he said, pressing a kiss into her palm. “I want to try something here with you, if that’s okay.” Allara smiled suspiciously at him.

“If it involves you vanishing into thin air in a moment of - well, you know, then I’m not interested,” she said, jokingly chastising him. He chuckled.

“No, no more of that. I think you’ve got the hang of Fade shifting now; passably well, at least,” he said with a smirk. She nudged him playfully.

“Flatterer.”

“What I have in mind is more - personal. I - I have told you before that things are easier for me in the Fade.” Allara nodded, her attention fixed on him. “It is - I think -,” he stuttered. “It will be better if I show you. May I?” Solas looked at her as if he were asking permission to eat the last of her dessert. She laughed.

“Well you better explain now. You have piqued my curiosity,” she said, observing him in his preparations. He removed the heavy outer coat of his armor, setting it aside with his pack and shaking out his shoulders. He rubbed his hands together, he closed his eyes in what looked like a moment of bliss, then extended his hands to Allara. She took them, wondering at the power or energy or whatever mana force she felt in him. Where their hands joined, a pale, sparkling, yellow light glowed around them. His hands were warm and dry, and his palms and fingertips vibrated with energy and light. Allara looked up at him in awe, and the warmness of his gaze made her heart pound even harder. “What -” she began.

“I am manipulating the energies of the Fade. It’s not quite bending to my will as much as I am suggesting a current for it to follow, if that makes sense. It is not unlike what you worked to find me here,” he said, his voice was soft and his attention stayed on Allara’s features.

“Are you saying that I could do this?” she asked, her voice awed, running her fingers down his palms in wonder. He took his hands and placed them on her temples, tracing her vallaslin with long fingers and watching her expression change from wondered to thrilled as she felt the energy on the sensitive skin of her lips and eyelids. He moved one hand down her throat, tracing up to where her vallaslin dipped into the collar of her deerskin jacket. He slid his hand inside the opening of her jacket, cupping her breast. The light emanating from his palm lit up the inside of her coat and Allara gasped, feeling the strange power vibrating against her nipple as if she wore no clothes at all. She thought of the possibilities of that sensation all over her body and she shuddered, stifling a moan. 

“Do you want to?” he asked, his voice low. His other hand still gently stroking her temple. She leaned into him, kissing his mouth softly.

“Yes,” she whispered against his lips. Excitement flared in his eyes as, without warning, he rolled her onto her back in the grassy clearing. He sat straddling her and beckoned for her hands with his glowing ones. She laughed, looking up at him, and put her hands palm to palm against his. 

“It is not unlike closing rifts, actually. It is the same principle of magic at work. Your intention, your will, along with the anchor allows you to manipulate the veil and in doing so, the Fade itself,” he said, very matter-of-fact. 

“You’re talking entirely too much right now,” said Allara. Solas grinned at her and pressed his hands against hers. She felt the gentle buzz of the power in those hands, as well as a jolt of excitement when that power seemed to electrify the anchor in her palm. 

“Channel your focus, will the energy to follow the current you choose,” said Solas. Allara could feel her hands getting warmer, even as much as she struggled to channel her focus with Solas straddling her as she lay on the ground. “Activate your mark as if you were going to close a rift,” he instructed. She did, and the power flared brightly in her hands, buzzing and radiating that strange sense of euphoria. She reached out to touch his face and he leaned into her hand, covering it with one of his. Solas lay down beside her and ran a hand sensuously over her breasts and belly, brushing lower and lower until his hand flirted with the waistband of her leather breeches. Allara had been lost in a haze of pleasure, but she gasped at that.

“I thought you didn’t want to yet,” she said, her glowing hand caressing his fingers at her hip. 

“A compromise. Our clothes will stay on,” he said. Allara looked confused for a moment, then his hand ventured down over her breeches to rest between her legs. She exhaled slowly, controlling her breath lest it all rush out of her at once. It was a sensation she had imagined, but her imagination did not do it justice. It was warm and bright and deep. She pictured the feeling traveling up from between her legs as a beam of sparking light to the rest of her body. Her thighs shuddered against Solas’ touch and he smiled in satisfaction as he took her mouth in a deep, lingering kiss. Allara ran her hands over his chest and broad shoulders, alternating kneading and running her fingernails over the rough weave of his tunic. 

Solas rolled on top of her and wedged a knee between her legs while stroking her mound and the tops of her thighs with long fingertips. She clutched his shoulders to her almost desperately and she felt the rumble in his chest when she pulled his face down her her, nibbling at his bottom lip and stroking his ears. She rode his thigh as the orgasm built in her, throbbing and tickling. She traced her hands down his long back, up his heaving chest and back again, resting at the hard bulge in his breeches. Her soft caresses pulled a strangled moan from Solas through gritted teeth. When Allara felt like she could absolutely no longer hold it in, she released, sending waves of deliciously sweet sensations throughout her body. She moaned softly against Solas’ mouth as he bent to kiss her, which was all he needed to send him over the edge as well. He shifted to lay on the ground next to her, his fingers twirling a design onto the top of her leather-clad thigh.

“Ar lath ma,” she said, staring into the tree canopy. His finger stopped tracing. She gave a slight giggle at his reaction. “Did you think I didn’t know what it meant when you spoke those words on my balcony? We Dalish have lost much of our language, but not that. Never that.”

“I -” Solas began. Allara hushed him with a kiss. He responded generously, taking his time. After a moment, Allara broke away and sighed contentedly. 

“I just wanted you to know: ar lath ma. Always.”

“Always, vhenan.”

It felt like decades later when they finally stood up in the physical world, stretching and brushing the dust from their clothes and the sleep from their eyes. Allara looked shyly over at Solas, who smiled back at her. Solas assured her they had been asleep for less than an hour, and she blinked in disbelief. To her mind, it felt like they had been gone all day. Much to her relief, the game they had shot was still in the wagon, untouched by any opportunistic scavengers. Allara shrugged her bow onto her back and Solas grabbed his pack. They had to be getting back to Skyhold if they were going to cook enough of this for a dinner party. Allara’s blush came out of nowhere, and when she felt it, it made her blush even more. Solas chuckled softly.

“I’m afraid if you keep up with that, everyone will know what we’ve been up to,” he said, taking her hand and pulling her to him for a swift kiss. 

“We’ve got enough game here to stuff their faces for days. As long as their mouths are full, they won’t talk!”


	5. "It's a party, can't you tell?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solas and Lavellan return from their morning hunt and now it's time to prepare the evening's feast. If she didn't already know all her friends were insufferable little shits, she does now.

The sun was just starting its descent as they approached the Skyhold gates, wagon of game in tow, when Allara stopped Solas with a soft touch at his elbow. “Solas, part of today, the ma’melana tradition - if I were back home, I’d talk to my Keeper about my day of introspection. I have no Keeper here, but I did spend much of this morning thinking. Sometimes it’s good to change things,” she said. Something in her voice suggested she was discovering the truth of that statement as she spoke. He nodded solemnly.

“Yes,” he replied.

“I’m glad you were with me this morning. Not just because of -” she cut herself off, blushing again. He grinned at her, encouraging her to finish her original thought. “This power I have, I want to learn everything I can about it.” She stared down at her marked hand, determined, then looked up at Solas. Something deep in his serene gaze changed and it troubled her, but she shook it off, continuing. “I’m not a mage, but I have this. I don’t know about Andraste, but maybe I was chosen by some unknown power. Closing rifts, walking in the Fade, I want to know what else I can do.” She paused, taking a deep breath. “Will you help me?” she asked finally. Solas took her marked hand in his and traced the outline of the glowing scar thoughtfully with his index finger.

“You do not need to ask, vhenan. I will share all that I can with you,” he said, giving her hand a quick squeeze. She smiled up at him.

“Thank you,” she said, clearing her throat. Her purpose was ahead of her, and she could hold that part of the melana ritual fulfilled. Not strictly traditional, but she was no longer in the aravel, and part of her knew that her life was already too changed to ever really go back to what it was. She signaled the guardsman in the tower above them to open the gate. He gave a shout and a moment later the huge iron gate clinked and groaned as it lifted for the two elves. The place was feeling more and more like home every day to Allara, and she wondered at the change in her. If she had told herself a year ago that she would consider a stone fortress almost entirely populated by humans as her home, she would have laughed herself silly. Just the thought itself put a silly grin on her face as they made their way through the courtyard to the butcher’s shed near the kitchens. Allara greeted those who she knew by name, smiled greetings at the rest. She was slowly learning, and she found it to be an enjoyable process.

The more time she spent chatting up guardsmen, shop keepers, refugees, and servants, the more she realized how important the Inquisition was. The average citizen certainly appreciated the big picture ideals of defeating Corypheus, restoring order, and closing the rifts, but they were more concerned with their immediate needs. The Inquisition was putting food in the mouths of their children and keeping bandits from their borders. It was rebuilding broken towns and putting coin back into their coffers. It was righting old wrongs and bringing justice to those they never thought would see it. The responsibility scared her sometimes, but when she spoke person to person with the small folk, she couldn’t help but swell with pride and gratitude for the task she was given.

They turned toward the entrance to the kitchen, making their way past the merchant tents toward the barn and the stables. Allara popped into the barn for rope, while Solas prepared the butchering station at the foot of the kitchen stairs. She was busily tying up one of the buck’s antlers in preparation for hanging it up when she heard a jovial “Hey boss” from behind her. The Iron Bull and Krem approached, observing the scene. Allara smirked, guessing they were about to sneak into the kitchen for a post-workout snack as evidenced by their sweaty faces and Krem’s padded practice armor. She had watched them get shooed out of the busy kitchen by the harassed cook more than once.

“Anything we can help with?” asked Bull. Allara tossed him a length of rope.

“Sure! Need to get these kills strung and skinned. How about it?” she asked.

“Hell yeah,” said Bull, grabbing Allara’s buck by its antlers one-handed and effortlessly hoisting it into a tree. Krem whistled in appreciation of the load in the wagon.

“You two had a successful hunt then,” he said. Allara nodded and handed him a skinning knife. He shrugged out of his padded armor, and got to work immediately on one of the rabbits.

“It seems you have this situation under control,” said Solas, nodding at Bull and Krem. “If you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll go get cleaned up. I have some business to attend to in the rotunda before dinner.” He grabbed his pack and slung it over his shoulder. Passing Allara, he grabbed her by the waist and pulled her close. “I’ll see you later, vhenan,” he whispered, brushing his lips against her ear. Allara felt her face go beet red as she watched Solas walk away. Bull raised his eyebrows at Krem, who grinned back at him.

“Can I ask?” Bull asked Allara.

“I’d prefer it if you didn’t,” she said.

 

Nearly two hours later, Allara wondered if Bull and Krem weren’t regretting offering their help. They were all up to their elbows in potato skins, dirty pots and pans, and an exasperated kitchen staff. The already cramped kitchen was made into even closer quarters by Bull’s sizable form, and his constant goofing off, while funny to Allara and Krem, was not quite as amusing to “those of us actually trying to accomplish something around here”. Marco, the blustery old head cook, would never admit it, but Bull was as handy with a butcher knife as he was with a broadsword. Despite his making every carcass that came across his workspace into a puppet telling jokes about their friends, he quickly and efficiently pieced out the different cuts of meat with the skill of a veteran chef. Allara wondered out loud what other hidden talents her large friend had, and he gave her a big lusty wink, laughing as the tips of Allara’s ears turned pink.

“It’s nothing compared to what Krem can do in the kitchen. Isn’t that right, Krem?” he said, rinsing the animal blood off his hands in a basin of cold water. A sly smile slid across Krem’s face.

“Whatever you say, chief,” said Krem. Marco was giving them all the side eye, and Allara recognized that as their cue to leave.

“Looks like we’ll have to find out some other time, I think we’ve plagued Marco here long enough. Best leave them to finish up,” she said. Marco shoved a lump of bread dough into the hearth fire and huffed in a response Allara interpreted as “it’s about time”. The group sidestepped out of the kitchen, leaving the final preparations to the staff.

“If you ask nicely, maybe Krem will make his famous Krem puffs,” said Bull, chuckling softly to himself as they walked down the curved stone stairway to the stable courtyard. Krem rolled his eyes animatedly at Allara, sighing. “Krem of spinach? Krem fraiche? Ice Krem. Krem of wheat.” By the end of the stairs, Bull was roaring with laughter at his own hilarity.

“See you later, Inquisitor,” said Krem, the corner of his mouth turned up in an insuppressible grin. He left Bull laughing at the bottom of the stairs as he made his way back to the tavern.

“Aww, sour Krem!” Bull called after him, tears of laughter streaming down his broad cheeks. Allara patted the qunari on his huge bare arm, giggling with him, and took her leave. Solas had promised her a quiet, intimate celebration, but from what she’d seen upon her return to Skyhold, it looked like everyone knew there was to be a celebration that night. Allara marched off in search of Josephine, so she could find out exactly how much she should regret telling her friend anything about her melana.

 

The main hall was buzzing with excitement when Allara got there, which she half-expected, but it made her more and more concerned that Josephine had leaked a little more than what she had agreed. Servants busily carried decorations through the hall to the courtyard and down to the mess, barely looking up to see where they were going. Allara was neared wiped out by a young man scurrying by with a ladder over his shoulder.

“Nice dodge,” said Varric. She spun to see the dwarf picking the dirt from under his fingernails with a pocket knife.

“Thanks. What’s going on here?” she asked, waving a hand vaguely around the main hall.

“It’s a party! Can’t you tell?” he said. His tone suggested he knew exactly what she was asking, but he was going to make her work for it.

“What is the party for?” she asked suspiciously. Varric narrowed his eyes at her, a grin creeping onto his face. “How much do you know, Varric?”

“How much should I know?” he countered. Allara mirrored his expression.

“Uh huh,” she said finally, ending their stare down. “I’ll see you later, Varric.” Varric tipped an invisible hat to her.

“Later, Inquisitor,” he said. Allara was halfway across the hall when he called out, “Oh hey, Inquisitor!” She turned to face him, dodging another servant rushing by with an armful of flowers. “Happy birthday,” he said. His grin was insufferable.


	6. The Party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a party at Skyhold. Allara Lavellan shows her friends how the dalish do birthday and she learns some new traditions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know when this got so fluffy, but there it is.

When Allara marched into Josephine’s office, all conversation in the room stopped. Leliana and Cullen were huddled around Josephine’s desk, their attention fixed on her writing board. They all simultaneously looked up to stare unblinking at Allara as she stood glowering in the doorway. Leliana was the first to move, furrowing her brows at Josephine’s notes and nodding her head emphatically. 

“I think that’s best that the Nevarran ambassador be contacted right away, Josephine. I’m glad we were able to work that out together,” said Leliana, speaking a little too quickly. Cullen cleared his throat loudly.

“Yes, quite. Well done. I’ll just be - I’ll just be going now,” he said. He mumbled something about “soldiers” and “training exercises” as he bowed to Josephine and Leliana and again to Allara, walking backwards through the door. 

“Am I interrupting something?” asked Allara, crossing her arms. Josephine busied her hands by neatening the stacks of parchment on her desk. Leliana watched her friend, a bemused smile playing at her lips. 

“Just discussing border strategy, Inquisitor. Nothing you need concern yourself with, we were just finishing up,” said Josie. Allara could see the flush blooming at her friend’s cheekbones and reveled in it. 

“Josie,” said Allara, her tone warning. “Why is the whole of Skyhold preparing for a huge celebration?” Josephine worried her elegant eyebrows and stretched her fingers: her nervous gestures. “Not so fast, Leliana. I know you had something to do with this,” Allara called to the spy master as she attempted to sneak away. Leliana paused with her hand on the door knob and turned, her smile beaming.

“Of course, Inquisitor,” said Leliana jovially. 

“Josie, I thought you promised, nothing big,” said Allara, pleading. Josephine saw the wounded look on Allara’s face and the pang of guilt she felt shoot through her was evident in her features.

“I was worried you wouldn’t approve, Inquisitor, but the people needed a celebration, and several camps within Skyhold were already planning their own Wintersend festivities, so I thought we might as well make it an event and I - I’m afraid I got a bit carried away,” finished Josephine lamely, turning huge brown eyes to Allara. 

“Wait, Wintersend?” asked Allara, looking from Josie to Leliana in confusion.

“It is a celebration to thank the Maker for the winter thaw and to pray for the bounty that the spring and summer months might yield,” offered Leliana.

“Yes, Cassandra was explaining that to me not two days ago. Are you saying that’s what’s going on outside? That it’s not -” Josephine’s sad eyes widened in alarm.

“Oh Maker, you thought - you thought that I would - but I would never -”

“I’m sorry, Inquisitor. I advised Josephine that a Wintersend festival would better camouflage your own celebration that you wanted kept small. The Wintersend idea was a popular one, hence all the decorations,” explained Leliana. Allara looked from Leliana to Josephine and back again. 

“So who knows about my, er, thing then?” she asked. 

“Oh just us, and your inner circle. No one else. Solas thought you would be pleased,” said Josephine. Allara’s stony face cracked into a small grin. She was not sure whether it was her sudden relief or the mention of Solas that did it.

“Yes, yes - of course, I am. Really! I’m sorry, I thought that maybe -” Allara trailed off.

“I can understand your concern. I was worried that you wouldn’t approve of another celebration being held in tandem with yours,” said Josephine, the worried look returning to her eyes. 

“Why should I mind? I think it’s a great idea!” Allara beamed.

“You do?” asked Josephine. 

“It’s perfect, actually. Josie, Leliana, you’re brilliant,” she said, meaning it. Josephine’s blush returned in earnest and Leliana didn’t bother hiding her sly smile.

“Your dinner will be in the garden at seven bells, Inquisitor. Very private, I assure you,” said Josephine. 

“You’re coming, right? Both of you?” asked Allara. The two women smiled at each other and then at her.

“Of course!” said Leliana and Josephine simultaneously. 

“Right, well, I’m glad we had this talk,” said Allara, feeling suddenly awkward for having all but accused her friends of conspiring against her. “I’ll see you at dinner.”

 

Allara felt lighter than she had in weeks as she soaked in her tub, luxuriating in both the lavender scented water and the time she had to bathe. Josephine and Leliana had sworn to her that she would not be disturbed until dinner, and she planned to take full advantage of that. She stretched out as far as she could, feeling the tension in her knotted muscles ease and release. The shemlen had a lot of unnecessary comforts in their everyday lives, but a hot bath was not one that Allara was planning to ridicule any time soon. 

The day was such an unexpected treat that Allara was at a loss as to what do with such a gift. She didn’t even know who to thank properly, though she supposed it was a group effort. With her clan, she had had a constant flow of work and responsibility. She was a provider; she gathered herbs and minerals, hunted and butchered game, scouted ahead for prospective campsites and made sure they were safe. With the Inquisition, her work load was totally different. The responsibilities she was used to were taken over by people who reported to people under her. She was no Keeper, and she was still getting used to being atop any hierarchy, much less a human one. She was asked to make life changing decisions, and not even for herself - for other people. She dictated policy and strategy far beyond her experience, and for some reason, people listened. 

It was the support and counsel of her chosen clan now that she valued above all else. She wondered if they knew exactly how much she needed each and every one of them. From Cassandra to Cole, Sera to Solas, they were all so different, but it was their differences that benefited her the most. Not even just her, but their entire cause. She wasn’t shouting into an echo chamber as her clan’s elder meetings so often turned were; every person she’d chosen to be around her had a unique point of view on any given situation. It was more than she ever could have hoped for. Sitting there in that tub, in her fancy room in the tower of a fortress, the sheer magnitude of her luck and fortune overwhelmed her. Her nose stung with sudden tears and she smiled, blinking them away. 

Allara stretched once more before getting out of the tub. Her towel lay across some hot bricks, deliciously warm. Owen, the young man who took care of her rooms, acted as if she had given him a gift by letting him ready her bath and towel as he readied the other Skyhold residents in his care, instead of shooing him away as she usually did. She made a mental note to leave a few extra silver for him to find when he came later to turn down her bed. She found her soft satin-weave breeches and tunic freshly laundered and pressed, laying neatly on her bedspread. She dressed and combed her hair out with her fingers, twining the strands around the fuzzy close-cropped patch at her temple into a thin plait; the way the hunters back in her clan wore their hair. She studied herself in her looking glass. A bit of new and a bit of old. It was her first melana away from what she had considered home, but Skyhold was home now too. She would always be the restlessly curious young hunter from Clan Lavellan, but she realized she was changing. She liked it. 

 

When Allara opened the door between Skyhold’s main hall and the garden courtyard, the scene before her nearly winded her. A long dining table lay in the center of the courtyard laden from end to end with platters full of roast venison, rabbit, wild greens, and oatcakes. There were several wine jugs surrounding each of the platters. Colored parchment lanterns hung in the trees and on poles, casting a romantic candle light glow around the party. Wild mountain flowers adorned every surface able to hold a decoration, and their fragrance mingled the aroma of the roasted meat in Allara’s nose, building up a swell of nostalgia in her chest that threatened to turn into tears. It was the sight of her friends around the table, chatting and laughing, that drove it home for her. She swallowed a happy sob and stepped out to joined her party. 

Josephine rushed up to greet her, a glass of wine in each hand. She handed one to Allara and they immediately toasted. Allara took a long sip of the wine, savoring it. It was delicious, complex, familiar. “Josie,” she said, with such urgency it made Josephine’s eyebrows twitch. “Where did you get this wine? This tastes just like -” Josephine grinned and a spark of excitement flashed in her eyes. 

“Clan Lavellan wine?” she asked coyly. Allara nodded while taking another sip, her expression looked as if she were searching for something in the flavor on her palate. “Well Inquisitor, it just happened that one of our merchants passed by a dalish camp on their way to Skyhold this afternoon and you’ll never guess what they had to trade.” Allara stared at Josephine, vaguely aware that her mouth was open. Leliana appeared next to Josephine, delighted at Allara’s surprise.

“Do you want to know how many of my birds Josie sent out to see if anyone within a day’s travel had this wine?” Leliana asked. She clinked the rim of her cup on Allara’s and took a long sip. “I’m awfully glad she did, it really is delicious.”

“Hush Lili, you’re embarrassing the Inquisitor,” said Josephine, playfully chastising her friend. Allara felt the color rise in her cheeks and she knew she could do nothing about it, but she didn’t care.

“You’re amazing,” she said to Josephine, then flicked her eyes to Leliana. “Both of you.” The three women embraced, and then Josephine and Leliana guided Allara to the long table. Iron Bull sat at one end, resting his huge booted feet on the corner of the table and pouring wine not into one of Josie’s festive crystal wine glasses, but into his usual leather-covered tankard. Krem sat at his left, an almost identical tankard at his lips. Blackwall sat talking with them, two of the crystal glasses filled in front of him. Varric and Sera were at Blackwall’s right, animatedly swapping stories, the both of them miming aiming bows at invisible targets. Cassandra looked up at Allara as she approached the table, and the warrior nodded her head at her friend. Vivienne raised her glass in an elegant gesture before returning to her conversation with Commander Cullen. Allara followed the sound of raucous laughter with her eyes over to a group apart from the main table, where she was thoroughly unsurprised to see Bull’s Chargers tearing it up with Dorian. She was, however, a bit surprised to see Cole sitting cross-legged in the grass near them, looking up at the group with a small smile under his large brimmed hat.

“Drinks for the Inquisitor!” shouted Bull, raising his tankard toward her. A chorus of “hear hear”s echoed his shout, and Allara was pulled to the long table, where she was sat down so abruptly she fell into her chair. Blackwall and Krem raced each other to the wine jug to fill her glass first; Krem was faster, and he filled Allara’s glass full to brimming. Allara laughed and sipped the top off the wine, savoring the familiar taste all over again, before lifting her glass. She downed the entire glass in a few unrefined gulps to cheering from the majority of her company.

A sudden sinking feeling threatened her high and she looked around, worried: Solas was still not there. Had he gotten so preoccupied in his work that he had forgotten about her dinner? It was not beyond the realm of possibility. She had known his work to absorb him for entire days and nights. Even explicitly disturbing him during those times did nothing, his focus was unconquerable. Meanwhile, the party had not started eating yet because she had not been properly toasted. She was here now, and everyone was more than ready to begin the feast. Indeed, it was obvious that a few of her friends were a few cups deep already. The sinking feeling threatened to turn into outright anxiety when suddenly, she relaxed.

She felt him before she saw him, perhaps it was the work of the pendant, his gift to her. Her hand traveled to where it lay against her throat almost reflexively. He appeared in the doorway from the main hall and stood soaking in the scene just as she had done. They locked eyes from across the courtyard and her heart leapt with the intense giddy joyfulness of new love. Bull followed her gaze and found Solas standing against a pillar. He raised his tankard to the elf and called, “Solas! Get over here you egg-headed son of a bitch!” The table roared with laughter, and even Solas barked a laugh at Bull’s jest before walking over to join the party. Cullen stood then, commanding the room with a polite cough. 

“Would you care to address our gathering, Inquisitor, such as it is?” he asked. Allara raised an eyebrow, considering. She had not been prepared to make a speech. The wine worked its magic in her bloodstream, easing the brief swell of nerves. She was surrounded by her closest friends, and she wanted to let them know. She stood, clearing her throat. She felt Solas’ hand briefly at her back and threw him a smile over her shoulder. 

“Thank you, I’m so glad you all could come. Hopefully this isn’t too strange or ‘elfy’ for you,” she said, looking at Sera, and winked. Sera rolled her eyes playfully. “Ma’melana marks when I first received my vallaslin - the tattoos on my face - from my clan. It marks when I became an adult. That was twelve years ago today,” she said almost dreamily. 

“Getting on in years just like the rest of us,” said Blackwall in his ho-hum way, to a few chuckles from the crowd.

“We dalish celebrate the transition to adulthood rather than the day of birth because when we receive our vallaslin, we are consciously choosing our path. We revisit that choice every year to renew our commitment to that path, to our responsibility. I have changed so much this year, met all of you, stumbled upon this,” she glanced at the glowing scar in her left palm. “I thought I wouldn’t be able to have this, with all the chaos around here, but Josie -” a lump appeared suddenly in her throat, and she blinked back the threat of tears. Josephine smiled at her, her hand moving up to her heart. “It’s more important now than it ever has been, for me, and I’m so glad to share it with all of you. You all mean so much to me,” her voice finally broke, and Cullen took that as his cue. He raised his glass high.

“To the Inquisitor!” he called. 

“The Inquisitor!” came the enthusiastic reply. 

“Let’s eat!” Allara called, and the party began to dig into the feast in front of them. Platters were called for and passed around, and the wine flowed freely. Allara didn’t know why she was surprised to see Solas partaking. Perhaps it was because he detested tea so much that she figured he didn’t have a taste for any mood altering substances. She was wrong. He kept a jug of wine near them and took on the task of refilling her glass as well as his own when they were empty. Eventually, plates stopped being refilled and more than one pair of boots came to rest on the table as the after dinner conversations began. Allara laughed at the look of horror on Vivienne’s face. She was sure the refined Grand Enchanter held much higher standards for table manners at her dinner parties, but Allara liked the casual atmosphere. It made her feel at home. 

Once Maryden and a few of her friends struck up the band, the boots were all decidedly off the table and stomping around the garden courtyard-turned dance floor. Solas suddenly swept Allara up in a twirling jig. Maryden had swapped her lute for a fiddle and sawed delightfully at the strings in a quick stepping tune. Allara followed Solas’ lead as much as she knew how as he spun, dipped, and twirled her around the yard. She giggled helplessly at the unfamiliar steps and Solas’ enthusiasm for the dance. When the song ended, he bowed gallantly and stepped aside for Cullen, who stood with his hand outstretched to her. The tall commander glided much more gracefully than Allara expected, considering the bulk of him and that she didn’t know quite what to expect since she’d never danced so closely with a human before. He seemed more at ease than he usually did as he guided her steps to the slower Fereldan mountain waltz. Perhaps it was the wine, Allara mused. Cullen bowed and Allara turned to face a grinning Leliana, whom she was not at all surprised to find was very light on her feet as they circled and spun to a very fast two-step. Allara had to catch her breath after that, and she begged the spy master’s pardon as she found her way over to the nearest bench to rest. 

“Quite the gathering,” said Varric, claiming the seat next to her.

“Are you having a good time?” she asked. 

“Of course!” he replied. He nodded his head over to where Krem had braced himself one-handed against a wall, flexing a bicep and talking very closely to a blushing Scout Harding. He turned and winked at Allara. She grinned and nodded her head to the dance floor where Josephine and Blackwall danced their fourth or fifth dance in a row together, Allara hadn’t counted. Varric raised his eyebrows in appreciation. “I’ve hit the story building jackpot, Kitten.” He drained the remaining wine in his glass and hopped up from the bench. “Can I get you another glass?” he asked. She considered her level of giddiness for a moment and then smiled and shook her head.

“I’ve had enough for now, Varric. Thank you.” Varric nodded his head at her and went to refill his glass. 

“Since when did he start calling you ‘Kitten’?” Solas’ voice came from behind her. She looked playfully up at him as he put his hands on her shoulders and gave a slight squeeze.

“Varric says I sneak up on him. It’s pretty funny, actually. He jumps a little every time. I told him I can’t help it if I’ve been trained all my life to walk silently in the forest,” she shrugged. “He said he was going to get me a bell to wear.” She giggled at that and Solas grinned, watching her. “That, and I guess kittens are curious? I don’t know, I haven’t ever kept a pet cat. What are they like?”

“Curious, like you,” he said. Grinning wickedly, he handed her a full glass of wine and she accepted it.

“You’re bad,” she teased, sipping against her better judgment.

“Oh yes, very,” his reply was a husky whisper that made her skin tingle.

 

Dorian’s bright tenor broke through the din of party conversation as he stood on one of the benches, illuminating his staff to cast a pale lavender light around him. “Friends, lovers, Grand Enchanter Vivienne,” he began, to a chorus of laughter. “We’ve got one last surprise for our Inquisitor. She’s shared her dalish melana tradition with the lot of us, and now it’s our turn.” Allara looked up at Solas quizzically and he smiled and offered her his arm. She took it and followed him back over to the bench where Dorian stood and the crowd was gathering. At his feet were several packages of varying size all wrapped in colorful parchment. 

“Oooh, presents,” said Scout Harding, looking very cozy nestled in Krem’s lap. Allara blinked at Dorian, registering. More gifts? She didn’t even know how to respond properly to the one Solas had given her. She shook her head, flabbergasted. 

“You see, Inquisitor, it seems that quite a few of your friends had been keeping gifts they intended to give you but were looking for a proper occasion. Name days are occasions for gifts, and while your melana isn’t quite a name day, it’s close enough. So if you don’t mind indulging us humans,” said Josephine. 

“And dwarves!” shouted Varric. Bull cleared his throat with a deep rumble. “Him too.” Varric jerked his head at Iron Bull and Bull nodded appreciatively. Allara gaped for a moment and then closed her mouth and nodded, not trusting herself to speak. 

“I’ll go first, shall I?” said Dorian. He hopped down from the bench and extinguished the light on his staff. He picked up a very meticulously wrapped rectangle and presented it to Allara with a gallant bow. She turned the package in her hands and began to unfold the parchment very carefully, fold by fold. 

“You must tear it, Inquisitor,” called Cassandra. Several voices echoed hers in agreement. Allara tore the paper savagely and grinned at their applause. She revealed a very old looking tome and turned it to study the binding. The script along the book’s spine read “Concerning Tevinter, by Magister Lucio Marus”. She smiled up at Dorian. 

“From my collection. A book on Tevinter history, since you’re always so keen to ask me about the subject. Not that I want you to stop asking me about Tevinter, mind, I just thought that when you’ve finished it we’ll have a nice chat,” said Dorian. Allara beamed at him and leaped up to hug him around the neck. 

“Thank you, Dorian. I look forward to it,” she said, kissing him on the cheek. She returned to her seat and ran her fingers over the book’s ancient leather bound cover. Dorian flashed his white teeth in a satisfied grin and smoothed his moustache. 

“I’ll go next,” said Cassandra, making her way to the front of the crowd. Cassandra handed Allara a box about the size of her forearm wrapped in plain parchment. Allara smiled at her friend and tore at the paper. Inside a box was a beautiful masterwork dalish-made ironwood bow grip. Allara hefted it, checking the feel against her palm. It was perfect. “I saw you looking at it the last time we were in Val Royeaux. It is better than what you’re using now. I thought you should have it,” said Cassandra, scuffing a boot against the loose soil at her feet. Allara turned watery eyes on her and Cassandra smiled shyly, extending her hand to Allara. She gripped it firmly, nodding her thanks. 

It went on. It seemed that Josephine was right, and several of her friends had been keeping gifts they had collected for her. She had absolutely no idea what to say. Thanks seemed a hollow echo of the sentiment she truly felt, but in an effort to make up for that she thanked and thanked everyone over and over again. Blackwall handed her a lumpy package that contained a miniature figure of a halla he had carved and painted himself. Allara squealed with delight, much to Blackwall’s embarrassment, and tucked it into her collar after she planted a teary kiss on his bearded cheek. Sera squeezed through the crowd to hand Allara a loosely covered tin. Allara removed the cover and found about a dozen lumpy oatmeal cookies. She took an eager bite out of one and almost instantly regretted it. Her friend was no cook, but it was obvious that Sera made the cookies herself. Allara willfully chewed and swallowed, smiling the entire time, and Sera’s face lit up at the thought that the Herald of Andraste enjoyed her baking. Cullen stepped forward and gave her a large, heavy package that contained an engraved chess board with precious silverite and obsidian pieces. Allara promised him that they’d have a game everyday when she was in Skyhold and he grinned widely. Josephine passed her a box containing the softest leather archer’s gloves Allara had ever felt, made in Antiva of course. The cuffs were embroidered with gold thread and Allara tried them on immediately. They fit, quite rightly, like gloves.

Varric strode up to her and, with a dramatic flair, presented her with a stack of parchment tied together with red satin ribbon. “Tales I’ve been collecting from our journeys together, your Inquisitorialness,” he said, grinning. “Just some short sketches, but I hope you find them amusing. I’m sure you’ll find a few of them at least enlightening.” He winked and Cassandra side-eyed him mercilessly. Allara placed his stories reverently on top of the book Dorian had given to her and rushed to hug the dwarf. 

The crowd parted as Vivienne stepped forward, a large rectangular box in her arms. She handed it to Allara and watched eagerly as she tore the shiny gold parchment from the box. Allara held up a gorgeous silver maille shirt. Emeralds and sapphires crusted the collar and hem of the armor, which was the lightest maille Allara had ever felt, and entire garment hummed with a familiar power, which made the mark in her hand tingle. 

“I had it custom made for you from my personal armorer in Val Royeaux, my dear. The enchantments are mine. It’s important to keep you safe, after all,” she said, and blew Allara a kiss. Allara mirrored the gesture, at a complete loss for words. She was sure that the garment’s worth was more than the combined value of every aravel Clan Lavellan owned. Leliana rushed in with a similarly wrapped package and placed it on Allara’s lap. She opened it with trembling fingers and pulled out a pair of golden dancing slippers, embroidered with silver thread and studded with tiny white pearls.

“A pretty lady deserves pretty things,” Leliana murmured. “They will come in handy in a few weeks when we go to Halamshiral.” She smiled brightly, plainly excited by the thought of imperial balls and returning to court. Allara had been sick about the idea for weeks, but at that moment she was almost looking forward to it. 

Bull stood up, the full height of him still head and shoulders over Cullen, the tallest human in the group. He bowed and offered Allara a package wrapped in what looked suspiciously like a dalish scarf. She removed the scarf and Dalish, of Bull’s Chargers, coughed politely and Allara tossed the scarf to her. She promptly re-tied it around her neck. She turned over the object the scarf had concealed in her hands. It was a horn, a drinking horn. The outside was both ridged in some places and smooth in others, and it held carvings of several different scenes as well as names. Looking closer, Allara realized it was the names of all Bull’s Chargers. They had inscribed their initials and signatures as well as drawings on the coal grey opalescent horn.

“It’s from the first dragon we killed together, boss. Remember? In Crestwood. It was glorious,” said Bull, allowing himself a moment of reminiscence. “We all left our mark on it. Something to remember us by. Someone, definitely not Dalish, did something to it to keep your cold drinks cold and your hot drinks hot.”

“Woah now, that sounds like magic, which I definitely know nothing about,” Dalish said, over enunciating every word. Almost everyone had a good laugh at that. Allara made it a point not to look at Sera, Vivienne, or Cullen to join in on the mirth. The pile of wrapped packages had turned into a pile of shredded parchment and Allara sat stunned, surrounded by unexpected gifts, and absolutely beaming. She went around the circle once again and hugged and kissed everyone she could get her hands on. She was sobbing freely, as much an effect of the wine as it was of the outpouring of emotion that rushed her. She felt Solas’ steady hand at her back and she turned into his embrace, burying her face for a moment in the thick fur collar of his coat. After a moment, she thanked everyone profusely again and the crowd began to disperse, carrying on with the merriment of the evening. 

Suddenly, she felt a soft grip on her hand. Cole stood before her, the large brim of his hat pushed back to reveal his sweet face. He was smiling distractedly. “I heard Josephine, Leliana and Cullen talking. They were organizing your party and discussing your gifts. They said that your friends were bringing you things that you would want. You’re my friend, so I brought you something you’ve been wanting,” said Cole. His eyes seemed to lose focus for a second, and then his grip tightened on her hand. “Peaceful now, out of danger, moving North and staying off the roads, the winter storms have stopped, children getting taller every day, missing you da’len.” Allara stared at him, her mouth working to form words. 

“Did you speak with my Clan?” she asked finally. 

“Your Keeper, yes. She was happy to talk,” said Cole. He briefly squeezed her hand and then skipped off toward the group of the Chargers. Allara stared after him. 

“Did you know he could do that?” she asked Solas. She felt his grin.

“He surprises me every day,” said Solas. A silent moment passed. His hand lingered at the small of her back. She had had enough wine to claim his mouth right there in front of everyone, but she wondered what he would think of a display like that. The muscles in her back twitched and she knew he felt her indecision. His hand slid lower, pulling her in to him in a rapid motion, and lower, until both his hands rested on her bottom, squeezing ever so slightly. He touched his forehead to hers, and she rubbed the tip of her nose against his. “Do you want to get out of here?” he asked. His voice had the hoarse, raspy quality that she had heard just that morning. It made her shiver helplessly against him. 

“People will talk,” she said.

“Let them,” he said, and he angled his face against hers and took her mouth in a hungry kiss right there in the middle of the garden courtyard. He tasted of wine and absolute bliss. If anyone saw or said anything at that moment, Allara had no way of knowing. Her senses were all full of him.


	7. Emprise du Lion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Inquisition camp packs up and heads for Halamshiral by way of Emprise du Lion.

Scout Harding’s team left early the next morning, bound for Emprise du Lion. Allara watched the small group shoulder their packs at the gate and say their goodbyes. She smiled wistfully as Krem lifted and spun a giggling Scout Harding in his arms, kissing her sweetly. The veteran scout group would travel light and swift, keeping away from notice as much as possible. In days, they would be able to cover the same distance that would take the Inquisition camp and their encumbering supply wagons well over a week. Silently, she prayed to Mythal to protect the scouts on their journey as the heavy iron gate clinked shut behind them.

Pretty soon it would be time for her team to saddle up again and ride West for Halamshiral and the Orlesian peace talks. Allara’s usual wanderlust clashed with her increasing desire to nest. She liked Skyhold and she was getting used to the comforts a permanent home could offer. No one at Skyhold gave her dirty looks for accumulating rare and wondrous possessions from her travels, because she had an entire room all her own in which to store them. Clan Lavellan’s aravels only had so much space, and most of that was filled with the clan’s necessities. Personal effects were few and small. She shook her head in an attempt to clear the melancholy thought of having to say goodbye to her treasures when she eventually returned to the dalish.

Lost in thought, she nearly forgot the tray of empty plates in her arms that she was carrying back to the tavern. She had taken a tray of breakfast foods up to share with Dorian, as was her daily morning tradition with the mage when they were both at Skyhold. It was, in part, because she enjoyed his company and his counsel. It was also because Allara was legitimately concerned that the man would get so wrapped up in his books and his journals that he would just simply forget to eat. She had seen it. Chastising him had done no good, so she had taken to having breakfast with him. Everyone won. Now, with a belly full of porridge and sweet rolls, she was ready to begin the day. She dropped off the tray with the barkeeper, nodded her thanks, and made for the armory.

Varric had beaten her there, and was already busily setting up their arrow making supplies on a workbench near the practice dummies. “Morning, Kitten,” he said, dragging a barrel of seasoned arrow shafts to the table.

“I half-expected you to be absent this morning, Varric,” she teased.

“What, you don’t think I can hold my liquor? You ought to know better by now. I should say that I’m surprised that you made it,” he said, wagging his eyebrows at her.

“And miss our date? Perish the thought.” Allara rolled over a log to sit on and set out her tools.

“I’m starting to think you’re leading me on, Inquisitor,” said Varric. Allara grinned.

“Who, me? I would never.” Allara took out a blade and a handful of feathers and began splitting them at the quills. Varric settled down over a low flame and began to heat the hide glue back to a spreadable consistency. They worked in companionable silence, listening to the sounds of the busy courtyard. Sera rarely joined their fletching parties, and when she did, she mostly just goofed off.

“I’ve had to make my own arrows since I was small. Boring work, that is. There’s someone who gets paid to make my arrows now, so why would I waste my time to keep making ‘em?” she had said. Allara could see where she was coming from, but she liked the mindless work of it. No one asked her for anything while she was busy in the armory yard with Varric. She could just concentrate on the arrow shafts and the line of her fletchings; wrapping the feathers just so, with no excess glue to weigh it down. Varric saw arrow making as a matter of pride. That, and according to him, Bianca was very particular and only he knew what she liked to shoot.

They had traded craft secrets. Allara had showed Varric several different dalish style arrows, and he had shown her what he picked up in Kirkwall from the Carta and the colorful collection of underworld rogues he had known. Allara wound her fletching and heads exclusively with sinew; she swore by it. Varric thought this was ridiculous and tried to explain to her that copper wire was the only way to go. They had attempted to settle it with a contest. Varric was more accurate and powerful at close range, given both Bianca and the momentum of his heavier arrows. At a distance, however, Allara was the superior shot. They considered it a draw, but Varric still bragged loudly in the tavern later that night about the shots in which he had bested the Inquisitor.

“So,” said Varric, breaking the silence. “You gonna tell me about you and Chuckles?” Allara looked up at him from her work, smirking.

“How long have you been waiting to ask me that?” she asked, not bothering to conceal the amusement in her voice.

“Oh, I don’t know. Probably since you took us all out of our way to help his friend, the demon, in the Exalted Plains,” said Varric. Allara coughed a laugh.

“But that was weeks ago! You knew?”

“I always know, Kitten,” he said, winking. “Everyone saw you two last night. I just want to know how someone like Chuckles managed to capture the heart of the Inquisitor.” Allara rolled her eyes animatedly.

“Oh stop it. You just want to know what he’s like in bed,” she accused, teasing.

“No need to be crass about it,” he said. The corner of his mouth twitched, as if he were trying desperately to hold back laughter. “Okay yes! I really do want to know. Does he get weird? I always suspected he’d be a weird one.” Allara gaped in amused disbelief.

“Varric! I’m not having this conversation with you!” she squeaked. She felt her face flushing and she could only imagine how red she was. She heard a disappointed “aww” from somewhere above her and looked up. Sera and Dorian were peeking out Sera’s open window.

“Don’t bother, I couldn’t get anything out of her either,” said Dorian, gloomily. Allara simply sat there, shaking her head, completely at a loss for words. Eventually she gathered her wits.

“You’re all ridiculous,” she said, waving a finger at her friends. Varric, Dorian and Sera erupted in new fits of giggles as Allara’s flush deepened. She just kept shaking her head and muttering obscenities both in elvhen and the common tongue, which didn’t exactly do anything to distract her friends from their amusement. When they realized that Allara really wasn’t the type to kiss and tell, Sera got bored and Dorian made his excuses to go back to his books. At least Varric had the decency to look sheepish.

 

The weeks that followed were full of preparations for the journey to Halamshiral. Josephine had finally given Allara her seal of approval on Orlesian etiquette and even her dancing. Allara had gleefully spun Leliana around the war table in a perfectly graceful Orlesian waltz as soon as Josie informed her that her education was complete. Allara hadn’t spent her life playing the Great Game as some had, but Josephine and Leliana were confident that she could hold her own, and their confidence was catching.

Throughout Skyhold, overseers impatiently directed last minute supplies to be packed into the wagons. Allara was glad that she was not responsible for this process. When her clan moved to a new place, the order of it was seamless and extremely well organized, but she had been just one piece in the well-oiled machine. She had no concept of how to actually organize a group to move together in the way she observed Skyhold operating. Her advisors were all natural leaders. All of them had the experience and the talent for directing large groups and seeing the bigger picture. She knew that’s what she should be striving to achieve, but try as she might, she felt she lacked something. She need a singular purpose to motivate her. What existed around and beyond that purpose neither interested or existed for her. She knew that was a weakness, she had been called out on it many times by her keeper and even by her Inquisition advisors when they had lost their patience with her. Instead of losing her temper, she ought to have listened to them. She knew that, but it didn’t change anything. She knew that the short fuse on her anger was only a mask to hide her insecurities, that being regarded at the same level as her advisors made her feel like a fraud, but she would rather stick a knife in her eye than admit that to anyone. She watched Cullen barking orders at his soldiers who were packing their weapons in one of the wagons and sighed, and wondered if it was too late to apologize.

The wagons slowly filled up, and one early morning saw Allara in the stables with her pack all ready to go, brushing out the coat of her shaggy red hart mount whom she had affectionately dubbed “Prince”, due to his crown-like antlers and generally regal disposition. She didn’t have a lot of riding experience, and what she did have was thanks to a few very patient halla and old Efren, Clan Lavellan’s halla shepherd. The dalish didn’t saddle their halla, and so Allara rode Prince bare back. He seemed to appreciate that. When she was confident Prince was in the best shape she could make him, she leaped up to settle on his back. She cooed softly to him, patting his neck, and rode out of the stables to lead the Inquisition camp on their journey to Halamshiral.

The journey was slow going with the wagons and their sheer numbers adding to the fact that traveling through rocky mountain passes was time consuming even when traveling light. They were leaving Skyhold with a skeleton crew, she knew, but Solas had assured her that “Skyhold is protected”, as vaguely as possible. Allara broke up the time by riding forward to scout and hunt and reporting back. Solas accompanied her a good amount of the time with Cole following him like a shadow, but she saw a bit of everyone when she made those short trips. She enjoyed Sera’s banter with Dorian; their playful ribbing was always entertaining. Varric kept pace with her on his pony and was always good for a story or two. Bull seemed content driving one of the wagons. He and Krem sipped at their tankards and chatted with whomever pulled up beside them. Vivienne would ride up next to Allara only when Solas was nowhere to be found. The Grand Enchanter enjoyed briefing Allara on what to expect at the Imperial Court, and described many of the nobles and their dirty secrets as they rode. The information went right through Allara’s pointed ears, but she enjoyed Vivienne’s enthusiasm. It was nice to see Vivienne in a good mood. Cassandra and Blackwall kept to the back of the line, the both of them more surly than usual. They both actively hated the idea of court functions, especially Orlesian court functions, and Allara suspected that they were keeping their distance so as to not be asked to accompany her to the ball. Despite the varying attitudes of her companions, the journey was a pleasant one. They gave themselves plenty of time to reach their destination, and were able to travel at a comfortable pace, which was a nice change for everyone. Days were spent riding, and nights were full of quiet conversation, camp food, and as much sleep as their road-weary bodies could get. Much to Allara’s delight, Solas shared her tent with her when they camped. They slept with their limbs entwined as they sought each other out in the Fade.

 

They arrived at the outskirts of Emprise du Lion at midday of the eighth day of traveling. The weather up to that point had been chilly, but pleasant; the end of winter thaw had begun and the sun was warm on the melting snow. That had changed when they approached Emprise. The entire area was still thick with ice and frost, the river that ran through the area was completely frozen over. They reached the Inquisition’s scout camp outside Sahrnia and found Scout Harding talking closely to two of her people. She looked exhausted; her face was pale and lined, and she sagged against the post she was using to hold herself up.

“Inquisitor,” she said, grimacing. “This is what’s left of the town. The lucky ones got out before the river froze over. The rest penned in by fade rifts and red templars. We’re the first friendly faces they’ve seen in a long, long while.”

“How did an entire river freeze so quickly?” asked Allara.

“It got really cold really fast,” said Harding, sinking to sit on a stump. She wiped cold sweat from her brow. “Sahrnia relies on its river for everything: trade, food. They weren’t expecting this.”

“I’ll look in on the townsfolk, see what they can tell me,” said Allara.

“I’m sure they’ll appreciate it. The red templars have been mounting frequent attacks. They want Emprise du Lion bad.”

Allara looked around. Most of the scouts in the camp sported bandages of some kind, and everyone looked exhausted. They had been helping the village as best they could, considering they weren’t outfitted as a fighting force. She smiled gratefully at Harding and gripped the dwarf’s gloved hand. “Tell your people they can take the day to rest and heal. We’ll be camping here overnight, and I will make sure that we restock your food and healing potions.” Harding nodded at her; her gaze was thankful, if overtired. The scout tried to stand, and quickly gave up, waving away Allara’s offer of help. Suddenly Harding’s stony grimace softened, the corners of her mouth turning up in a lopsided smile. Allara turned to see what she was reacting to, and spied Krem determinedly making his way through the crowded camp headed straight for them. His warm amber eyes were full of concern as he scooped Harding into his arms and carried her off without a word. Allara sighed after them, then checked her weapons and prepared to head into the town.

To her surprise, Vivienne offered to accompany her, even though Solas had already declared that he’d be joining her. She hoped she wouldn’t have to listen to too much bickering, but she was glad of the Grand Enchanter’s assistance. Cassandra, restless from the long journey, insisted on joining the party as well. The group made their way into the ruined town of Sahrnia, which was somehow worse off than Allara had imagined. It looked like the town had been hit by a hurricane and then snap frozen. Townsfolk huddled together in the ruined shells of their houses, plainly terrified. Most of the townspeople hid their faces or walked quickly away when Allara and her team walked through, but there was one woman who stood out. She held herself proudly and was dressed better than most of the the citizens Allara observed, which meant only that her clothes were not quite as patched and looked like they might actually provide her with warmth. She was handing out meager rations to a group of townspeople gathered around her in one of the only structurally sounds houses in the town. Allara approached.

“I know you have a family, Emille, but so does Mistress Courtois. Are you saying that your family deserves more than hers? I know, I know, just be sure to ration as best you can. There is no way of knowing when the next merchant will be along,” she was saying to a wretched looking old man in a thin cloak. She looked up at Allara, her expression plainly surprised. Whether the surprise was at her group of warriors or at her being obviously dalish, she could not be certain. “Ah, the Inquisition. I am Mistress Poulin,” she said simply.

“That was kind of you,” said Allara, nodding toward the man who had stooped to offer his child the crust of bread Mistress Poulin had just handed him.

“I do what I can. I am partly to blame for all this,” said Mistress Poulin. Allara blinked in confusion. “The red templars are here because, fool that I am, I sold them my family’s quarry. They have taken every worker. We haven’t seen them in weeks. And it’s not enough. They keep coming, taking more people, and there’s nothing I can do to stop them.” Mistress Poulin wrung her hands nervously, shooting furtively hopeful glances at Allara and her party.

“How could you have sold land to the red templars?” asked Allara. She tried as best she could to keep the accusation out of her tone, since she didn’t know the entire extent of these peoples’ suffering, but she wasn’t sure if she had succeeded.

“I didn’t know! I swear by Andraste’s Pyre! They looked like knights, chevaliers! Such pretty speeches. They said that they would reopen the quarry, bring employment and trade back to Sahrnia. We’d been struggling since the war began, how could I refuse?”

“What do you mean they’re taking workers?” asked Cassandra.

“People just disappear. First the people who worked the quarry, then they took people from their homes. I don’t know why. I just prayed they’d leave me and my family alone,” said Mistress Poulin. Cassandra made a disgusted noise and turned away from the woman, preferring to stand in the cold rather than share the meager shelter with the Orlesian coward for another moment. Allara met her out there moments later, followed by Vivienne and Solas. Cassandra marched off with purpose, leading the group toward a hillside where huge jagged shards of red lyrium shot out of the ground. Allara swallowed hard, feeling the surge of adrenaline in her veins, and readied a few arrows in her drawing hand.

The red templars were not trying to hide. Cassandra found one of their campsites within a few minutes of walking. She signaled the group to fan out and surround them, while they still and them unawares. In Allara’s experience, the red templars were not an overly observant bunch, but she had learned not to underestimate them. Ordinary templars had been dangerous enough. Now, the corruption of the red lyrium made them fearless as well. They had lost their minds, their bodies, their very humanity to the tainted substance. The thought made Allara shudder. The thought of one of them getting their hands on any one of her mage friends - on Solas - made her stomach turn. As if he could sense her thoughts, Solas reached out a hand to gently squeeze her shoulder, before he crept silently to his place of attack.

At Cassandra’s signal, they attacked. Cassandra charged into the camp, shield up, plowing into a group of them. She hacked and slashed mercilessly at one of the guards once she had torn his shield away. She then leapt up to counter a blow from a knight wielding a huge broadsword. She swore loudly and slammed her shield up to meet his blade, disarming him, then turned and ran him through with her sword. She tore her blade out of the knight and whipped it around to meet another templar’s blow before the body dropped to the ground.

Allara kited around the edge of the camp, her sharp eyes picking out gaps in armor or helmets. An enemy marksman spotted her and nearly got a lock on her, but she dodged his shot with dexterous backwards flip, landing where his arrow had wedged itself into the rock wall behind her. She yanked his arrow out of the rock and fired it back at him, her shot sinking right into the narrow gap in the marksman’s helmet. He dropped and she grinned savagely, her eyes already scanning for her next target. One of the red lyrium abominations the Inquisition had taken to calling “behemoths” lumbered out from the woods, twisting and wailing. Cassandra picked up one of the fallen templars’ swords and threw it at the monster, where it lodged deep between to huge red lyrium shards sticking out of its chest. It looked to Allara that it only served to make it more angry. A sharp, icy breeze blew past her cheek and she heard a loud snap. The behemoth’s movements were slowing; its huge, misshapen body frosting over with a sheen of ice. Solas kept throwing shards of ice from his staff at the beast, calling for Cassandra to rush it. Allara took the cue as well, concentrating her fire on it in the hope that her arrows were doing more damage to it in its frozen state. Cassandra roared and lunged for the monster. Allara saw a glittering field appear around Cassandra as well as herself, and felt the power of Vivienne’s protective barrier. She kept firing shot after shot as Cassandra slammed her shield repeatedly into the behemoth. Allara spotted two templar guards creeping toward Cassandra and yelled. Vivienne shouted and a wall of flame erupted in front of them, keeping them from Cassandra and her bloody work. It distracted them long enough for Allara to put both of them down with the throwing knives she kept in her belt.

The behemoth roared and fell. Cassandra rode it down, hanging from its glowing red head, her sword to the hilt in its skull. The group had a moment to breathe. Allara’s hands were shaky on her bow, and she was just beginning to feel the minor injuries she had acquired in the skirmish, when a shout sounded suddenly from behind her. She whirled to face a small, mutilated red templar. The corruption of the red lyrium had appeared to have fused his hands with his blades and he lunged at her in a slash that all but ignored Allara’s leather armor and sliced her arm from shoulder to elbow. She kicked him back and dodged his next blow, then took her bow and swung it as a staff. She felt the blow connect with his skull, as it sent the templar sprawling onto the ground. A moment later he was covered in ice, frozen in place. A bolt of raw magical power hit the figure, shattering what had been his body into thousands of shards. Allara looked up to see Solas with his staff raised above his head, his face a mask of fear and rage. He rushed to her.

“I’m fine,” said Allara, brushing off his attentions. “It’s just a scratch.” Vivienne wedged her way in front of Solas, her mouth pressed into a grim line.

“One can never be too careful when dealing with red lyrium, my dear,” she said, peeling back the remains of Allara’s sleeve while ignoring her protests. It was more than a scratch, but Allara had had much worse. The wound was at least a centimeter deep all the way down, and it bled freely. She was just now feeling the pain, but that she could push out of her mind. Her embarrassment was what was bothering her the most at that moment. To be the only one severely injured, caught unawares when she was usually so observant. And by a red templar of all the things. She shook her head. Vivienne’s hands flashed with white healing light as she held them to Allara’s arm, closing the wound. The Grand Enchanter stepped back, scrutinizing her work. She sighed heavily. “Ugh, you’ll have a scar, and only days away from the Empress’s ball,” she mourned. Solas glared at Vivienne, and she willfully ignored him, grabbing a handful of snow to clean her hands of Allara’s blood.

“This is worse than I thought, they’re much too close to the town,” said Cassandra.

“I agree,” said Allara. “We must stay and help these people deal with this.” Her companions were silent. She looked around to them, but none of them would meet her eyes. “These red templars will continue to kidnap and corrupt these townspeople. They can’t defend themselves, they are barely able to stay alive without this threat! This is up to us.” She suddenly felt sick. Dread crept into her chest like a sinister fog. “Solas?” she looked to him, and he met her eyes briefly. She did not like what she saw there.

“I -” he shrugged helplessly.

“This is going to sound heartless,” Vivienne began. Allara shot her a warning glare, and she held her hand up to block her protest. “We cannot afford to delay our journey to Halamshiral. Our prior commitment demands that we reach the Winter Palace in five days’ time. We simply do not have the luxury of time for this, Inquisitor.”

“Luxury?!” Allara sputtered. She couldn’t believe her ears. “These people will die! They’ll die because we have to - to get to a party?!” Solas reached out to touch her shoulder and she shrugged him off violently.

“Vivienne is right,” he said softly.

“What?” Allara’s voice was little more than a whisper as she glared at him. He refused to meet her eyes. She looked pleadingly to Cassandra, her last sane companion. Cassandra was scowling, but it was plain that she agreed with the First Enchanter as well. Her stomach plummeted.

“You want to help these people?” asked Vivienne. Her voice held a note of compassion that made Allara blink. “We must get to Halamshiral. There is a chance that we could end the Orlesian civil war at this ball and we must take it. We make peace at the Winter Palace and it will find its way here.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” said Allara, tightly. She sighed heavily and pinched the bridge of her nose.

“The chevaliers will once again be free to protect the people rather than tangling themselves up in Celene and Gaspard’s nonsense,” said Cassandra. “Once the threat against the throne is gone, whoever sits upon it will be able to go about ruling Orlais, rather than defending it from itself.”

“If the Inquisition misses that ball, if Celene is assassinated, all this,” Vivienne gestured at the ruined red templar corpses around them. “This will continue, and whatever progress we make by staying here now will be reversed as soon as we are inevitably called away.”

Allara felt like screaming. She would have, if she had been sure it wouldn’t have attracted more red templars to them. Instead, she fumed silently, barely keeping hold of her temper. Her hands clenched on her bow, making her recently healed upper arm sore with the tension in her muscles. If she clenched her jaw any tighter, she would have broken her teeth. It didn’t ease her overwhelming feeling of helplessness. She knew Vivienne was right, so did her companions. It didn’t make it any easier. How was she supposed to tell those people the Inquisition was leaving them on their own? How was she supposed to tell Scout Harding that they were leaving them open to red templar attacks and who knows what else? She was too upset to speak. Instead, she walked, trusting her companions to follow her, and they did.

Allara ordered that a generous number of the guards who would have accompanied the Inquisition to Halamshiral remain behind to defend Sahrnia as best they could. Commander Cullen was only too happy to oblige, and put together the guard complement personally. He hated the idea of leaving the small town vulnerable to the red templars as much as she did. Scout Harding was visibly relieved at this, and shook Allara’s hand thoroughly. They spent a tense night in the camp. Allara barely uttered a word to anyone, save Solas, whom she assured her anger was not for. Reluctantly, she led the Inquisition camp away the next day. They had resupplied and reinforced the Sahrnia scout camp, but Allara was still sick about it. Though now, the only way she could see herself feeling better was through victory at these peace talks, whatever the cost. She set her jaw and plowed ahead.

The tone of the whole camp was much less jovial after having seen Emprise du Lion. The fate of the town weighed heavy on everyone. In addition, now that they were getting deeper into Orlais, they had to be more careful about strangers on the road. Neither Celene nor Gaspard wanted to be on the wrong side of the Inquisition, but every war had deserters. Mostly, they were smart enough to stay far away of the large armed host of the Inquisition camp moving along the main roads of the empire. There were times when Allara and a small team strayed from the group to hunt or scout, however, and several times they were swooped upon by raiders or other such desperate men. She never felt good about dispatching them. They were almost always malnourished and in rags.

At dusk on the fourth day’s ride from Emprise, the Inquisition made camp within sight of the walls of Halamshiral. Everyone was exhausted, grim, and nearly frozen. Setting up a camp that would be there for at least a week cheered some. Ale, campfires, and hot food raised the general morale considerably. Allara was glad to be able to put her things down for more than a day, and she was pleased that Prince would have a chance to rest and graze on grass poking through the snow, now that they were away from the strangely frozen tundra of Emprise du Lion. Thoughts of the days to come loomed in her thoughts. She would face a different kind of enemy, the kind that didn’t come at her head on. The enemy that killed with secrets rather than swords. She sighed, and leaned on one of the wagons. She would have to trust that she was prepared, but she didn’t like not knowing what was coming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the kudos and the feedback!


	8. Madame Esme's

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vivienne takes Lavellan, Solas, and Sera shopping in the high quarter of Halamshiral for the upcoming ball.

“I won’t hear any more about it,” said Allara imperiously. She held up her hand in an effort to block Solas’ protests.

“An elven apostate on your arm will do the Inquisition no favors in the Winter Palace,” he repeated. Allara raised an eyebrow at him, wordlessly reiterating her stance. He sighed in defeat, the smallest hint of a smile creeping in at the corner of his mouth. “But, if that is your will -”

“It is,” she said crisply. “I should like for Sera to be there too.” Vivienne balked at this.

“Inquisitor, if you don’t mind me saying, that is simply the worst idea you’ve ever had,” said Vivienne.

“You said yourself no one pays any attention to elves in Orlais,” said Allara. Vivienne was far too proper to do something as base as rolling her eyes, but her stiff mask of barely concealed annoyance conveyed the same sentiment.

“If you are seeking to make some kind of statement with this elven entourage you’re putting together, I regret to inform you that your efforts will be wasted at this particular gathering,” said Vivienne.

“Before you say anything else, Lady Vivienne,” said Allara pointedly. “You must trust that I have my reasons. I need you for your invaluable knowledge of the court and its intrigues. I have been told to expect treachery at every level, around every corner. Surely that includes the servants. Sera has already informed me that her Friends of Red Jenny have active contacts in the Winter Palace. Don’t you think that any additional information we can gather about the goings on in Halamshiral, despite their origin, would be valuable?” Allara smiled sweetly at the Grand Enchanter. She knew she had the game, set, and match.

“Well clearly you’ve thought about it, and I suppose your mind is made up,” huffed Vivienne. Allara nodded. “Very well. Collect Sera. Madame Esme is expecting us at noon for the fitting, and I would hate to add tardiness to the list of our faults.” Vivienne turned on her heel and walked off. Allara glanced sideways just in time to catch the deliciously satisfied look on Solas’ face before he regained his usual composure. 

 

The dressmaker’s shop was unlike anything Allara had ever seen before. Mannequins in Orlesian finery posed in the grand front window, advertising the wares inside. Their party was greeted and ushered inside by a very meek elven woman who refused to make eye contact with anyone, and then led to their own private dressing room. Bolts of brightly colored fabric lined the walls on shelves like books in a library. Allara ran her fingers over the material, wondering at the fineness of the weaves. Was this spider silk? How had they managed to make the pigments so bright? What in the name of the creators did they use to create that vibrant shade of red? She took the hem of a skirt and spread it out to its full width. How was one supposed to move in such a garment? How did ladies use the privy is such gowns? The idea of clothing that was purely decorative was still a new one to Allara. Every stitch of clothing she’d ever owned was created with practical purposes in mind. She found the whole idea to be strange, but she couldn’t help her strange fascination with it. 

“This is something, innit?” said Sera, sidling up next to Allara. “The cost of just one of these stupid dresses could feed an entire family in the slums for a year.”

Vivienne lounged on an overstuffed chaise, sipping at a glass of iced mint water. The appropriately bored expression on her face was clearly visible under her ornate silver mask. “I know this is all very alien to you, Sera dear, but one does not discuss matters such as cost when shopping in the upper markets. It’s dreadfully common.”

“I’ll discuss whatever I want, Vivi, and I’ll thank you to shut up about it,” Sera retorted. “I’m proud to be common if the other hand is getting mistaken for someone like you.” 

“That isn’t likely to ever happen, my dear,” said Vivienne. 

The elven servant reentered the room. She had a tape measure draped around her neck and she carried a large wooden box. A short, round human woman followed the servant. Madame Esme, Allara presumed. The woman carried herself as if she were the empress of Orlais, and Celene was merely keeping her seat warm. Her mask was a bright, plain white that matched her hair, and it was edged in a gold flake that matched the slippers that peeked out from the bottom of her simple black gown. The lined ivory skin under her mask suggested that she was aging, but Allara could not get a read on how old the woman might be. Her thin lips were painted a blood red, and the whole effect made her look like a living doll. Allara was so fascinated by the image of the woman that she didn’t notice the look of disdain pass beneath her mask as her eyes traveled over the three elves. Sera certainly did, though Solas put a calming hand on her shoulder before she could impetuously blurt out whatever insult floated to the top of her head first.

“Grand Enchanter, darling. How delightful to see you again. How are you?” said the woman. Her voice was dry as old parchment. She spoke to Vivienne as if she were the only person in the room, and glided over to kiss her on both cheeks. 

“I’m afraid I’m in a bit of a bind, Madame Esme,” said Vivienne, her tone dramatic. “I’ll be attending the Empress’s ball tomorrow evening, naturally, but my party and I arrived in Halamshiral only last night and none of us have a stitch to wear.” Madame Esme made an justly horrified noise and held out a regal hand to help Vivienne from her seat.

“Then we have no time to lose, darling. A dear friend such as you need not even ask,” said Madame Esme, her tone was ever so slightly chilly. Surely a ball given by the Empress was an extremely busy time for a dressmaker such as Madame Esme, but Vivienne seemed to command somewhat of a hold over the small woman. Vivienne rose from the chaise gracefully and made a sweeping gesture, finally indicating Allara, Solas and Sera. “Allow me to introduce Inquisitor Lavellan.” Madame Esme’s eyes widened for a moment under her mask. It was obvious from that slight crack in her Orlesian armor that whatever Vivienne had informed her about the Inquisitor, she had neglected to mention that the Inquisitor was an elf. “And her associates, Solas and Sera,” Vivienne added almost as an afterthought. 

“A pleasure, I’m sure,” said the woman automatically. Allara expected no recognition from anyone at any time, but she had begun to get used to a certain level of respect from most people when they heard her title. The abruptness with which Madame Esme dismissed her had Allara so taken aback that she had to stifle a giggle behind her hand when the woman had turned around. Sera was so furious that she couldn’t see what Allara found amusing about anything, and Solas simply looked at her with an interested expression on his face. She knew she couldn’t properly explain, and instead she reached out her hand to him and he took it, entwining his fingers with hers. 

Madame Esme promptly had everyone ushered, one at a time, into a curtained-off section of the dressing room where they dressed down to their smallclothes to have their measurements taken by the elven servant. Allara attempted to get the woman’s name, but being addressed directly made her somehow even more jumpy and shy than she already was, and Allara had to finally accept that the woman was happiest when she was ignored.

Solas watched with interest for a while as Vivienne and Madame Esme debated which fabrics and colors suited each of them. It seemed that the dressmaker already had a reserved selection of fabric in Vivienne’s color and texture preferences. After a while, his expression glazed over as it did when he made brief waking excursions into the Fade. It fascinated Allara to watch him, even as her personal style were being discussed as if she were being offered as a sacrifice to the altar of the Orlesian court. Madame Esme was entertaining Vivienne with the most mundane details regarding the fashion trends of the season when Solas finally blinked and looked down at Allara, as if he had felt her gaze. His expression was strained and Allara could sense the tension in his rigid posture. He cleared his throat and Vivienne looked casually over her shoulder at him. 

“I am sorry, something has come up. I trust your judgment in this absolutely, Lady Vivienne. I must leave the very important matter of my evening wear in your capable hands,” he said. Allara looked questioningly at him, and he shook his head almost imperceptibly. “I’ll explain later” his expression seemed to say. He squeezed her hand reassuringly and stood to leave.

“Such a pity you can’t stay. Will Sera be joining you as well?” Vivienne asked suggestively. Sera scowled at her for a moment before a strangely evil grin took over her face.

“I’m gonna stay right here, Vivi. In fact, I might just spend the whole day with you. Just us girls,” said Sera. 

“Excellent, darling. You can accompany me to the Circle tower after this. The apprentice mages are always looking for - subjects,” said Vivienne. She continued to leaf through pages of pattern designs, but she flicked her eyes up at Sera to see if her words had their intended effect and smirked. They had. Sera groaned in frustration and sat down hard on a padded bench, crossing her arms. “Now that I think of it, Esme dear, I think Sera would do well in a scarlet. Something like this, but shorter in the front,” said Vivienne, resuming her conversation with the dressmaker. 

Vivienne had single handedly nailed down nearly all of the details on the fabric choices and designs after three excruciating hours. Allara had spent most of it daydreaming. Her thoughts wandered to Solas, as they often did, but they were tinged with worry at her recollection of his expression when he left. He was plainly worried about something he had seen in the Fade. Could it have been a vision? A message? Another of his spirit friends in danger? Knowing Solas, it could have just as easily been a way to excuse himself from the mind-numbing gossip between Vivienne and Esme about the who’s who of Orlesian nobility. But if that were true, he would have brought her with him. She frowned, electing to stop worrying about that and deciding to start worrying about the ball. 

All the cloak and dagger passive aggression of Orlesian politics made her blood pressure rise, but not as much as having to dance like a show pony for a party full of rich humans who actively subjugated her kind. She had been in Halamshiral for less than a day she already hated it. The ancient city was populated by more elves than humans, but the humans controlled ninety-nine percent of the wealth. Allara had insisted on traveling by foot through the crowded slums to reach the high quarter where Madame Esme’s dress shop was located. Along the way, Sera enlightened Allara and Solas to some of the more grievous atrocities the elves of Halamshiral were forced to put up with. Chevaliers would blood their recruits by setting them loose on unwary elves walking in the streets after dark. Noble patrons would run up bar tabs and then refuse to pay, threatening violence if the elven proprietor objected. Empress Celene herself had razed the low quarter not long ago. Most had explained it as her response to the brewing rebellion in the large elven district. The way Sera told it made it sound as if it were in direct response to rumors that Celene was having an affair with an elven maid. Allara knew there to be at least a degree of truth to the tale, since Leliana had told her of Celene’s affair with the now ambassador Briala, but she thought that Sera’s story was too ridiculous to be true, even for Orlais. 

Whatever the reason for the destruction of Halamshiral’s low quarter, it didn’t change anything for its residents who lived in fire-damaged homes with badly patched roofs. Those who could afford it had rebuilt what they could, but the evidence of the fire was still plain in the squalor of the tightly packed streets. Fresh lumber patched over broken windows and charred brick. Families huddled together under blankets and Allara wondered if they had homes to go to at all. The air was still thick with the smell of burning, and the fire had to have been months ago. Hardly anyone walked the streets outside, and if they did, they were walking with quick purpose. Mostly, those who saw her and her party looked immediately away, afraid of retribution for looking at a noble the wrong way. They were dressed like nobles, Allara supposed. Even Sera wore the fine dragon leather armor Allara had Harrit craft for her, and Vivienne stood out even in a crowd of noble Orlesians. They were also carrying weapons, an act that had been banned for the elves of Halamshiral. Allara thought of what anyone in her clan would say if they were told they couldn’t carry weapons. The thought made her smile grimly. The few elves who didn’t avert their eyes glared furiously at them. This puzzled Allara, but it infuriated Sera. The usually flippant rogue was frustrated nearly to tears. Eventually, Solas was able to get out of her that the elves staring daggers at them saw their appearance as a betrayal. Allara, Sera and Solas were all elves and they walked through the filthy streets heads held high, with clean faces and well-kept clothes. Their apparent lack of fear was offensive to those who had known nothing else their entire lives.

“How do you like it, Inquisitor?” asked Vivienne. Allara shook her head, coming back to the present and attempting to clear it of her broody thoughts. The residue remained.

“Excuse me?” asked Allara. Vivienne impatiently shook a piece parchment she held with a sketch of a gown on it. The gown was very typically Orlesian, with a long corset and a full skirt. Notes scribbled into the margins in Esme’s tiny curled handwriting suggested that the gown would be a pale gold with sky blue accents. Allara had overheard at least part of Vivienne’s plan. “Only gold for the Inquisitor, but not yellow gold, that’s far too plebeian. Pray don’t tell Ambassador Montilyet I said that when she’s here later, dear. Our leader needs something more ethereal. She needs to stand out, after all,” Vivienne had said. Allara stared at the sketch, picturing herself looking like an Orlesian darling. A doll, just like Madame Esme and all the other humans in the city who would sooner run down an elf injured in the street than offer them help. 

“I have some suggestions,” said Allara. Vivienne blinked, plainly surprised at her sudden interest in the process. “This skirt has to go. Perhaps something more flowing, less stiff.” Allara continued to list off her edits to a blank-faced Esme and an obviously amused Vivienne. From the corner, even Sera broke her pout to crack a smile. By the time she was done, she had sketched out an entirely different dress on the reverse side of the parchment. The corset was still there, but shorter, ending at her waist instead of extending over her hips. The off-shoulder sleeves were made up of strings of pearls that draped over bare arms rather than the popular long-sleeved satin. The skirt was Allara’s proudest work. In the front, it ended at the knee and traveled down to the floor in the back in an elegant lacy train. The dancing slippers Leliana had given her would be framed by the gown’s hem. She had no tools to color the sketch, but she visualized the pale gold and blue materials Vivienne had picked out, and thought they would be more than suitable. The overall effect was to the tune of “I’m an elf and I’m here and you are all going to deal with it.” Allara didn’t try to hide her smug grin. “Or something like that,” she said, presenting the sketch to Madame Esme.

“I can’t wait to see their faces,” enthused Vivienne. Allara was pleased to have her approval, though she didn’t need it. The dressmaker’s face grew stony under her mask as she scrutinized the drawing.

“I am not so sure. I have existing patterns for these other gowns,” Esme started. Vivienne tilted her head at the older woman like a cat considering her prey. 

“Oh dear,” said Vivienne, her voice deep with concern. She took the sketch from Esme’s hands. “You are right, of course, Madame Esme.”

“What?!” said Sera, jumping up to protest on Allara’s behalf. Vivienne held up a slender finger.

“I am?” asked the dressmaker.

“Of course! We shouldn’t be burdening you with this. It’s too much. I’ll simply take the Inquisitor here to Madame Gardinier’s,” said Vivienne. Madame Esme snapped the sketch back from Vivienne.

“Madame Gardinier!” Esme huffed. “If you want your Inquisitor to be wearing cheap, last season cloth. Her stitching will fall apart as soon as you try on the gown. I will not allow you to stoop to her level.” Vivienne’s face was still an impressive mask of polite concern.

“Well, if you’re sure,” said Vivienne. 

“Absolutely,” said Madame Esme. “You will be radiant, Lady Inquisitor.” Allara twitched in surprise at being addressed personally by the dressmaker. She nodded her thanks, smiling at the look of confused admiration on Sera’s face. The look of admiration was quickly replaced by her usual mischievous grin.

“I have some suggestions of my own as well,” said Sera, and quickly snaked the parchment and quill from the dressmaker’s grasp, a look of manic glee on her face.


	9. The Ball

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Inquisition attends Empress Celene's ball at the Winter Palace, from Solas' point of view.

Solas sat on the floor in the middle of his childhood home, its fine stone walls and the comfort of its hearth perfectly recreated in the Fade from his memories. It was where his friends knew to reach him when they needed him. It had been the only place he ever truly considered home, though something about that was changing. The last time he had visited, it had been with Allara. He had shown it to her as it was in its present state: a ruin, reclaimed by nature, serving only as a monument to what once was.

The memory of that morning spent in the Fade with his vhenan made Solas’ heart ache with happiness. It felt so good to share his true self with her, even if she was unaware of what it meant. He was as free as he could be in the Fade, unburdened by the many masks and cloaks he wore in the waking world. He was no longer alone. He belonged with someone, to someone, and she was his in return. She had accepted him, had opened herself up to him intimately. There was no way he could put into words what that first time had meant to him, but he had endeavored to show her in his actions every time they entered the Fade together. 

When he was of a mind to continue fooling himself, he would stop there and enjoy thoughts of their time together. Most of the time, however, the wicked voice inside his head tormented him with thoughts of what she’d do if she knew the whole truth of who he was or what he would do once Corypheus’ threat was dealt with. Could she ever reconcile who he was to her people with who he was to her? The way she looked at him when she thought no one else was watching told him she could, but his practical reasoning and experiences caused him to doubt. While it was horrifying to consider the consequences of Corypheus’ potential victory, at least that scenario had a definite end. He refused to think of where his path would take him if the Inquisition actually managed to stop Corypheus. He could not share that burden, nor would he ever wish it upon anyone.

The spirit came to him as a beautiful elven woman. Bright, vital features shone in her rich, dark complexion. Thick, springy mahogany ringlets were cropped close around her long, pointed ears. Her loose, white robes billowed behind her in the slight breeze. She looked as much like a goddess as any he had ever seen standing in his doorway. “Hello old friend,” she said, her voice warm as honey.

“It has been a long time,” said Solas, inviting her to sit with him. She did. The compassion in her gaze caused him to shift uncomfortably. 

“It is not I who has been the stranger. You have preferred the company of Regret these past many years.” The spirit of Forgiveness took his hands in hers. Solas said nothing; there was nothing to say. 

“You are troubled,” she said. There is no use trying to hide anything from a spirit, which was one of the reasons Solas found their company so therapeutic. His usual defense mechanisms were useless, and so he was forced to face his truth. 

“The threat we face is greater than I could ever have anticipated. Corypheus is cunning, he strikes at us from all sides hoping to find a weakness. I fear that one day he will succeed,” said Solas. Forgiveness smiled sadly at him. She knew what he was doing.

“That is not what I spoke of, but it is why I am here. There is a presence here in the Fade, something old and powerful. It has been growing, feeding, and it searches. I can feel it, but I cannot see it. It is somehow beyond me,” she said. Solas took pause at that. A being who could hide from a spirit in the Fade? It would take great power to perform such a task, though he knew it to be possible. 

“What does it feel like?” he asked. 

“Fear, so much fear,” she said. They sat for a long while in silence. Solas puzzled through scenarios in his mind while Forgiveness sat still as a statue, regarding him. 

“I will hunt here tonight in attempt to search this being out,” he said finally. She nodded solemnly, it was what she had expected. She stood, stretching, and he stood alongside her. 

“Search well, dear friend,” she said, clasping his hands in hers. 

“I will. Thank you for finding me. I - it has been too long,” said Solas. She was still gazing intently at him, her expression reflecting a curious mixture of emotions. Suddenly, she pulled him close to her. He returned the embrace, breathing in the calming scent of her. She smelled of ancient memories, forgotten to all but a few. 

“You deserve happiness,” she whispered, her words washing over him like cool water. “You deserve love.” He pulled away from her slightly, studying the painfully earnest expression in her eyes, and he willed himself for once to believe it.

 

Grand Duke Gaspard had offered his chateau for the Inquisition’s use in preparing for the Empress’ ball. The Duke’s generosity was a double edged sword: he offered the Inquisition his hospitality while keeping a close eye on his guests. Solas had shooed away the suspiciously helpful servants who had come offering to help him dress. He was perfectly capable of dressing himself, and he did so quickly, satisfied with Vivienne’s choices for his wardrobe. It was a gleaming white tailcoat and matching slim-fitting trousers made of fine Royale Sea silk. The enchantments Vivienne had imbued into the cloth hummed in his hands and he raised an eyebrow, impressed with their power. The royal blue vest under the coat provided a splash of color. He straightened the silver silk cravat at his throat, scrutinizing his appearance in the mirror. The look clashed with the assumed title of “serving man” he had given to the Empress’ herald who would call out introductions at the start of the ball, but Vivienne was not one to skimp when it came to fashion. He had elected to go without a mask. Anything he could do to separate himself from any possibility of being mistaken as Orlesian was worth doing in his opinion. That, and as an elf he would most likely be ignored the entire evening anyway. That suited him fine. The threat of danger over the evening’s events was very real to more than just the Empress, and invisibility would aid him considerably. He would observe from the shadows, and he would be ready when Allara needed him. 

He made his way through the maze of the chateau’s long hallways and staircases, ignoring the puzzled and alarmed looks Gaspard’s elven servants gave him. He pitied them, but their continued shock at seeing himself, Sera and Allara interacting with their master and other nobles as equals was starting to grate on his nerves. He met Cullen, Leliana and Josephine in the foyer of the grand house. Sera and Vivienne were helping the Inquisitor, they told him. He smirked, wondering what kind of help Sera could be in such a situation. She was mostly likely only there to purposefully annoy Vivienne; the thought amused him. 

“You look very nice, Solas,” said Josephine. He made a slight bow to the woman, who looked dazzling in a bright yellow gold Antivan style ball gown.

“Thank you, Lady Ambassador,” he replied. He noticed none of them wore the traditional Orlesian masks, a fact that he approved of greatly. It was a statement that boldly told the court that they were there representing the Inquisition and no one else. Even the Orlesian-born Leliana went bare faced, though Solas supposed she was the least among them who would be in need of a mask to conceal her emotions for the purposes of the Great Game. She wasn’t trying to conceal anything she felt at that moment, however, as she smiled in apparent glee at the pageantry around her. She was instructing Commander Cullen to turn about for her so she could admire the cut of his deep red and gold dress uniform. The Nightingale seemed more relaxed than Solas had ever seen her, surrounded by the intrigue of the Orlesian court. He supposed he shouldn’t be surprised, this was her natural habitat. Even the stark contrast of seeing her in her fine lilac and silver Orlesian ball gown after having only seen her in her day to day leather and maille did not shock him. She wore the gown exactly as she wore her armor.

Sera bounded down the grand staircase toward the group, a wide smile on her youthful face. She looked quite lovely, Solas thought. Her short, blonde hair was combed and plaited. As if that weren’t enough of a triumph where Sera’s hair was concerned, the braids were woven with tiny white flowers. The dress she wore was pretty, if a bit odd. The wide, ruffled skirt of an Orlesian ball gown had been cut short, causing the black tulle ruffles to spill out under a scarlet silk canopy just above the knee. Sera struck a pose a few stairs from the bottom, noticing that all eyes were on her. She kicked a leg wrapped in white hose out in a playful Can Can dance, showing off the matching red satin dancing slippers. “I know, right?” she said in response to the unspoken reception. “Ooh Elfy, you’re gonna piss your breeches,” she said excitedly, turning to Solas. Solas looked at her, puzzled. She waggled her eyebrows at him, grinning mischievously. A moment later, he realized her meaning. 

Vivienne appeared at the top of the stairs, looking impressive as ever in a very expensive looking Orlesian ball gown in her favored shades of steel blue, white and gold. For all Vivienne’s majesty, however, for once she was overshadowed. Allara stood behind her, absolutely radiant in her gown. Pale gold lace lay atop layers of sheer sky blue gauze. The structured corset flowed into the asymmetrical hem of the rippling skirt. Strings of pearls dripped from her ears, throat, and shoulders. The wholly non-Orlesian style made a stunning statement. That he knew for certain that was her intention made Solas appreciate it all the more. For all its pretty charms, however, it was not the gown, but the shy smile that appeared on Allara’s softly rouged lips when she saw him that made his breath catch in his throat. She followed Vivienne, stepping carefully down the stairs as if taking great care not to damage her delicate slippers. Her thick auburn hair had been curled, and it tumbled across her face as she looked down to watch her step. A wild thought occurred to Solas that he ought to rush to her side to offer his lady a gallant arm like a knight from some folk tale, but he found himself curiously frozen in place. 

“Will I do?” she asked when she reached him. He held out a hand for her and she gripped it lightly with a white-gloved hand. He felt a rush at her touch. The way she looked at him, sought his approval even now when she was so clearly on top of the world filled him with wonder. What had he ever done to deserve the admiration of this woman? It was not the first time he had pondered such a question. He inclined his head to her in as regal a motion as he could muster, hoping it would serve to cover his apparent speechlessness. 

“Lady Inquisitor, you look sensational!” exclaimed Leliana. Vivienne beamed with pride at her creation. There was no way the Imperial Court would be able to talk of anything but the Inquisition and its stunningly beautiful elven leader for months if not years. Both Leliana and Josephine gushed loudly over the dress as Solas watched on, not bothering to hide the small smile that had crept onto his lips. 

“I told you, didn’t I?” said Sera, playfully elbowing Solas. 

“You certainly did,” he conceded. 

 

The ball was exactly what Solas thought it would be: full of Orlesians. The Inquisition’s party had strategically placed themselves throughout the Winter Palace. Leliana and Sera had their eyes and ears to the ground, picking information up where they could. Cullen did as much as he could to entertain the swarm of women who had gathered around him while he surreptitiously commanded his backup forces. Vivienne and Josephine indulged the nobility with delicious tidbits and stories of the Inquisitor’s more adventurous excursions. Allara worked tirelessly, entertaining those who desired to speak to and be seen with her, then slipping away to explore what lay behind closed doors and locked hallways for inconspicuous periods of time. 

Solas had posted himself near the garden courtyard, which happened to be a main route for the many palace servants and wait staff. The servants spoke candidly to him, if not slightly guarded at first. He was an elf, but he was there, upstairs, as a guest of the Empress and the fabled Inquisition. He wore fine clothes and had the cultured air of a scholar, but he joked with the servants and listened to their gossip. He was sure the servants came around as often as they did to refill his wine glass just so they could try and get a read on him. He didn’t mind giving them something to talk about. 

At one point, he had looked out the window to the courtyard and had seen Allara scaling down the garden trellis, the fine gauze of her skirts catching periodically on the small thorns of the plant that climbed the wall. He stifled a laugh behind his gloved fist and attempted to draw surrounding attention away from her to a plate of enticing looking frilly cakes. She approached him moments later, slightly red faced and ruffled from the exertion. He discreetly plucked away a small leaf that clung stubbornly to one of her auburn curls, letting his hand linger too long at her face against his better judgment. When she asked him to dance with that hint of mischief in her eye, he had to sternly remind himself of their purpose there, lest he lead her directly on to the main dance floor in front of the entire Orlesian Court before their work was done. There would be time enough for that later.

He was unsurprised when they had finally uncovered the plot against the Empress’ life. He was even unsurprised at the layers of intrigue between Gaspard, Celene, and the elven ambassador Briala. Their maneuvering and scheming was a disappointing mess and the thought of cleaning it up made his head ache. That the assassins were from Tevinter, however, was cause for alarm. The Venatori cult was making waves, and their reputation for ruthless magic and cruelty was all too well known to too many. Their involvement was proof enough to Solas that Corypheus was directing this move himself. 

Eventually Grand Duchess Florienne had shown her true colors. The fool woman actually believed the ancient darkspawn’s promises that she would one day rule all of Thedas when he transcended to godhood. She confronted them in the courtyard, unleashing a rift that was supposed to have meant death for the Inquisitor and her party. Fortunately, they were able to close the rift and dispatch the demons it spawned with enough time to rush back into the grand ballroom before Florienne could make her final strike. Allara dexterously manipulated the court as if she had been playing the Game all her life. Florienne was not able to get a word in before Allara had thoroughly unmasked her in front of the Empress and the entire court. He had been so proud of her in that moment. He knew what it must have cost her to put on a show for the court for which she had such vocal distaste.

The blame fell to Gaspard, as Solas suspected it must. What he didn’t see coming was the reunion between Empress Celene and Ambassador Briala. Apparently there had been truth to the rumors after all. The Empress had publicly announced the elf as a marquise and a full member of the court. The announcement made Allara, Sera, and Solas look at each other with baffled disbelief. They had come to create stability in Orlais to thwart Corypheus’ grab for power. No one had anticipated that saving Celene’s life would benefit the elves. Solas saw the glimmer of hope in Allara’s eyes and couldn’t bring himself to take it from her. It was a bold move by the Empress, but change did not happen overnight. He knew that better than anyone.

 

Solas found the Inquisitor alone on the Empress’ balcony after Celene and Briala had made their announcements. He had suspected she would seek out a quiet place, and it wasn’t long before one of the servants tipped him off to where she had gone. The Lady Morrigan was taking her leave when he stepped onto the balcony, a haughty look of triumph etched on her striking features. She said nothing as she brushed past Solas, and he caught the faintest whiff of incense that clung to her hair on the breeze. So that was Celene’s arcane advisor, the so-called Witch of the Wilds. He would have to keep an eye on her. 

Allara was leaning on the balcony rail overlooking the palace grounds. It was like her to seek out a place to think, to be alone, after something big happened. Ending the Orlesian civil war and giving hope to a nation’s population of elves qualified as “something big” even on a good day. She looked tired; it had been a long night for everyone. Her beautiful dress now bore cuts and tears, and was stained with demon ichor and blood: a result of some of their more unfortunate encounters of the evening. He hoped she wouldn’t be too upset about the dress. She had been so excited about it, but it was merely icing on the cake. She didn’t need it, her allure was so much deeper than any gown. She absentmindedly tapped her foot to the rhythm of the music that floated out from the main ballroom. 

“I’m not surprised to find you out here,” he said, coming to rest on the balcony railing at her side. “Thoughts?” She appeared to chew on the question. So much had happened after all, it was a lot for anyone to wrap their head around. She had been so invested in the welfare of the Orlesian elves that she must be feeling a great victory, but Gaspard’s death had cast a sour note into the events. Solas had never known Allara to rejoice in death, no matter how much it may be deserved.

“We achieved all our goals. I’m enjoying the moment of peace while it lasts,” she said. He thought of the inevitable chaos the following days would bring. Moment of peace, indeed. He couldn’t keep the amusement from his voice.

“You should. They’re fleeting enough. Hang onto them when you can,” he said. She smiled at him, and though her eyes were tired and her dress was ruined, she had never looked more beautiful to him. A sudden, enthusiastic urge to be close to her came over him. “Come, before the band stops playing, dance with me!”

Allara looked at his outstretched, gloved hand with a sparkle in her eye. They had come all this way to Halamshiral to attend this ball, and she had not even gotten the opportunity to truly enjoy it. Solas watched her consider, and he was sure the thoughts of what the court might think were heavy on her mind. Damn the court, he thought, and suddenly he saw his thoughts reflected in her eyes. She took his hand with a smile. “I’d love to,” she said.


	10. Worst Case Scenario

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Allara experiences a nightmare and is unable to find Solas in the Fade to help her out of it.

The scent of fear was so thick in the air of the Fade, the wolf could almost taste it. The presence was strongest here, and it should have been simple enough to find the demon, or whatever it was, but it managed to elude him as easily as it had the spirits. He pressed his nose to the ground in the hope of picking up one definite track, but it was no use. The scent of terror was everywhere, like a foul residue. He prowled, hunting and stalking, but was unable to find any physicality to the feeling. Demons and whispers teased and tormented the edges of his vision, but as soon as he turned his head, they were gone. He howled in frustration, digging his claws into the hard clay ground. 

A shadow appeared at the edge of a grove of trees. Just a small flicker, but his sharp eyes detected it instantly. He twitched his nose at it, suspecting a trap. It smelled strongly of the terror that tainted his hunting grounds, and it made his hackles stand on end. He pursued, cautiously at first, stepping silently through the wet leaves that carpeted the forest floor. The shadow grew and began to purposefully evade him then, moving faster and dodging every lunge and leap. Without a thought, he found himself chasing it deeper and deeper into the forest. 

***

Allara ran down dark, twisting, narrow alleys in pursuit of the voices that cried out to her for help. The rushing air burned her tired lungs, but she couldn’t stop. Every time she slowed, the voices screamed louder. A rock caught her boot and sent her sprawling head first onto the cold cobblestone ground. When she looked up, she was in the center of a deserted marketplace. She heard the voices calling to her from behind a huge warehouse door. The door was plain, but there was a menacing aura around it, and Allara didn’t understand why it terrified her. Marshaling her courage, she pushed herself up from the ground and ran to the door. The voices were just on the other side. She tried the knob, but it was locked tight. Reaching for her belt pouch, she withdrew a selection of lockpicks she kept on her and got to work. Seconds later, she heard the lock mechanism clunk open inside the door and she heaved it open.

Keeper Istimaethoriel and several other members of Clan Lavellan sat manacled together on the ground of the warehouse. Old Efren the shepherd was there, and several of the clan’s older children. Young Faelan had finally gotten his vallaslin, Allara noticed with a pang. The fresh tattoo, a tribute to Andruil, was covered with dirt and dried blood. The young elf’s head lolled, unconscious. He must have put up a fight. The Keeper had been badly beaten as well; both eyes were purple and swollen nearly shut, and dried blood crusted from her nose down her chin. The other elves looked little better. “Da - da’len?” croaked the Keeper, turning her head so that her less-injured eye rested on Allara. Allara felt the hot tears falling down her cheeks. 

“Yes, hahren. I’m here,” she said, taking the woman’s manacled hand in hers. “I’m going to get you out of here.”

“No, you mustn’t!” said Istimaethoriel. There was plain terror in her voice and she looked around wildly, as if some monster were going to appear at any moment.

“What? Why? Who did this to you? How did you come to be here?” asked Allara. 

“Tevinter slavers,” said the Keeper, by way of explanation. Allara’s stomach dropped. “We’re all that’s left, da’len. The rest of the clan, they -” The Keeper’s words were cut off by her sobs. “They’ll kill you if they see you. You must leave, now!” Allara stared at the Keeper, not believing the words she was hearing.

In the corner, Faelan groaned. Efren steadied the boy with a hand on his shoulder as he came to. He blinked a few times, taking in his surroundings. He felt the weight of the manacles on his wrists and ankles and thrashed in frustration. Efren shushed him, warning that a struggle might bring unwanted attention. His eyes found the Keeper, and widened in alarm at the state of her. Then he turned his eyes to Allara and the look of hope that filled his face made her heart hurt. “Allara, I knew you’d come! I told them you would save us,” he said. 

“Yes,” she said, determinedly sifting through her lockpicks to find one the right size. “I -” She was cut off. A force held her frozen. The only part of her that she was able to move was her eyes, and they flicked around wildly trying to find the source of what could only be magic. She was the only one who had been frozen. Her clan remained manacled on the floor, all staring at her with looks of mixed hope and fear on their damaged faces. They seemed unaware that she was unable to move.

A door deep in the warehouse creaked open and several hooded, faceless figures filed out. They came to collect the chains to lead the elves out. One of the figures held a coiled whip, and without warning, it cracked the whip at Faelan. The young elf lunged at the figure, and was jerked up short by his restraints. The figure threw its head back in soundless laughter at his struggle and moved in to kick Faelan to the ground. Keeper Istimaethoriel rose to her knees then, the highest she could get given the shackles. “Stop!” she commanded, with as much authority as she could muster. The figure turned from its fixation on Faelan to focus on the Keeper. “He’s no good to you dead,” she said. Another of the figures stooped by Faelan to drag him up, its hands forcing his head up. He resisted, struggling. The figure struck him hard on the back and he went slack enough to be dragged up by the figure again. The Keeper screamed out of terror for Faelan and the figure near her struck her down. Faelan roared in rage as he witnessed the figure whip Istimaethoriel mercilessly on the ground, tearing open the back of her Keeper’s robes with the force of the lashes. 

Allara struggled with all her might to get free of the power holding her there, but all her efforts were useless. The figures did not seem to know or care that she was there. They did not appear to hear her screaming from her static prison. Whoever or whatever had held her fast had wanted her only to witness this. She heard the words in her mind as if Solas had said them to her directly. She felt the warmth of the pendant he had given her on her throat, and suddenly she knew. This was the Fade. She felt foolish for not realizing sooner. 

She breathed deep, channeling her focus through the pendant as she had done so many times before. She felt the force holding her release, but when she looked up, her clan and the hooded figures were gone. The warehouse was empty. Only a nightmare, she thought to herself, calming slightly. Or was it a vision? She took another deep breath and closed her eyes, expecting to feel the now-familiar rush of traveling back to her physical body from the Fade. The rush never came. She opened her eyes, and she was still in the warehouse. She felt a strange weight on her hands and looked down. They were chained together. From the shadows, a dark, hooded figure emerged. It was laughing a terrible, raspy, joyless laugh. It moved before her and she felt the sharp sting of the whip across her face before she heard its loud crack.

***

It was closer now, so tantalizingly close. The wolf nipped at the edge of the shadow he chased, the scent of terror thick in his nostrils and throat. If he could just get a burst of speed, he would catch it. The thought of it drove him into a frenzy. 

“Stop!” came an echo of a voice. It was faint, as if it were carried on the wind. Yet the voice was familiar, and he felt a pang of emotion. It made him pause just long enough for the shadow to pull forward. He drove the voice to the back of his mind and put on speed. 

“No! Why?!” said the same voice, louder, but still barely more than a whisper. The wolf’s ears twitched. 

“You’re gonna have to kill me!” roared the voice, this time clear as crystal. The wolf stopped dead. He knew that voice. She was in trouble, but she was also in the Fade. Was she coming through to him? Would she find her way here? The thought turned his blood to ice. She couldn’t see him like this, he could not let her. The shadow had paused as well. It seemed to leer at the wolf and he growled at it, baring his fangs menacingly. The shadow taunted him, emanating waves of fear and dread. They washed over the wolf, and he saw his priority. The shadow must be stopped, that was his purpose. When the shadow was stopped he would help her. Meanwhile, he had to stop her from coming to him. She would not understand if she found him like this. Now was not the time. She could handle herself, he knew. She would be fine without him. 

***

Allara ran. The air stung the raw skin at her wrists and ankles. She pumped her legs with as much strength as she could, willing them to carry her faster. She was no longer sure whether the hooded figure was still behind her, or if she had lost it. She tried again to channel her will through the pendant, to find Solas. She should be able to find him, she had done it nearly every night since he showed her how. She could feel his presence there, she should be able to reach him, but something was preventing it. She tried again, this time focusing on somewhere safe rather than trying to locate Solas. She closed her eyes and immediately felt the pulling of the current rushing her away to a different place in the Fade. 

When she opened her eyes again, she was at Skyhold. She released a breath she didn’t know she had been holding. She walked through the open iron gates, expecting to greet the Fade versions of the usual host of guards who were usually there, but the place was oddly deserted. It was interesting, she thought, of all the places she had explored in the Fade both by herself and with Solas, she had never thought to visit Skyhold. Perhaps this was normal for this part of the Fade, or perhaps she had willed the fortress to be empty subconsciously. She shrugged and made for the main hall. She would find her quarters and sit for a moment to collect her thoughts. Her limbs felt like they were made of lead and the tang of fear still tinged her mind and ran as adrenaline through her veins. Once she was calm again, she would be able to leave the Fade. She would be able to wake up. 

As soon as she stepped into the main courtyard, she knew something was very wrong. The normally bustling square between the steps of the main hall, the tavern, and the armory was as deserted as everywhere else and it looked like it had been hit by a hurricane. The tavern door had been torn off its hinges and was laying several feet away from the building. Allara could see that the inside had been thoroughly trashed as well. This was no force of nature. Skyhold had been taken. If it had been sacked, there had to have been people here. She scanned the mud and cobblestones for tracks, but couldn’t tell the age of any of the shuffling footprints she saw around her. Her stomach dropped to the floor and she rushed up the stairs to the main hall to observe the damage there.

She found the doors closed and locked from the outside. Heavy chains were wrapped around the steel window grates of the main hall’s doors and padlocked. Panic hit Allara full on. She fumbled for her lockpicks with numb fingers and got to work on the padlock. The chains fell from the grates with a series of heavy, echoing clunks. Allara pushed her full weight against one of the heavy doors and it barely budged. Something was blocking it from the other side. She managed to open the door far enough to squeeze herself through, and she did, shimmying through the narrow opening. 

The smell was overpowering. It had been noticeable outside, but nothing like it was inside the main hall. As soon as she opened the door, the stench of sulfur and old blood assaulted her nostrils. When she finally entered the hall, she saw where it came from. She had found the residents of Skyhold. She tried to force herself to look at the aftermath, to try and determine what had happened. Looking at the mangled, mutilated corpses of the people she had been responsible for was too much. She strangled a scream and it turned into violent retching. Her stomach was empty, but she heaved and spat bile onto the blood-covered stone floor. 

The population of Skyhold had been herded into the main hall and then someone had opened a rift and locked the door. Along with the corpses of of the Inquisition forces and staff, Allara saw the unmistakable remains of demons and horrors. She picked her way through the waste, her heart replaced by a gaping hole. She wanted nothing more than to turn and run, but she knew she had to look. It was a nightmare, it was put there by something for a reason, with intention. A nightmare.

“Solas, I need you. Help me,” she whispered weakly. If she couldn’t go to him, maybe he could come to her, she hoped. She moved aside a fallen table and gasped at the sight of Varric’s body. His gloved finger was on Bianca’s trigger, but he had run out of bolts. Cassandra lay sprawled and bloody not far away, her sword firmly embedded in a pride demon’s skull. “No no no no no,” Allara muttered. She knew what she would find, but she continued searching anyway. One by one, she found all of her companions and advisors. She knew that they had all died protecting the weaker and unarmed among them, and she knew that they had all known it was one of the things that might have been asked of them, but that didn’t make it better. Iron Bull’s sightless eyes stared at her, and seeing his powerful form so broken and bloody sent Allara to her knees. She saw that one of Dorian’s hands was pressed into Bull’s while the other clutched his now broken staff to his chest. She forced herself to stand again, to see what the nightmare had for her. The terrible visions of her destroyed friends weren’t enough. She knew as soon as she stepped into the main hall to find this bloody mess. She knew she had to find Solas. 

His rotunda was trashed, but empty. Demon ichor had been spattered over his beautiful frescoes. The door leading outside toward Cullen’s office was locked. It didn’t surprise her. She turned to move up the spiral staircase in the tower, but heaps of broken furniture barred her way. She ventured back into the main hall. Tears moved freely down her cheeks as she stared at the scene once again. Cullen’s body lay surrounded by at least a dozen demon corpses. The blood on the stone floor soaked into his blond hair. She lay a hand on the cracked plate armor that covered the commander’s chest and sent a silent prayer to Falon’din. This was a nightmare, she reminded herself firmly. She willed anger to take over the paralyzing terror and grief, but the scene wouldn’t let her. At last, in the corridor leading to the war room, she found what she knew she had been led there to see. 

She thought she was prepared for it, after seeing the rest of her friend made into corpses, but she was not. Solas lay crumpled against the door to the war room. He had been separated from his staff, and Allara suspected that he had kept off the attackers as long as his mana had let him. She rushed to him, turning him onto his back. His robes were soaked in blood and ichor. His head had been crushed somehow, and his face was so mangled that he was nearly unrecognizable, but she knew the feeling of his body in her hands. The body she had held with love and passion so often that she knew every curve and plane. The body that was now limp and lifeless. She clutched his soaked robes in her hands so hard she heard the fabric tear. “Nightmare, nightmare. This is a nightmare!” she roared, sobbing. Her cries echoed off the stone walls for what seemed like forever. Her whole body was shaking and it seemed as if she would collapse or die before she would leave this place. Her body shook, and then suddenly, she felt the sensation of being shaken. 

***

Allara woke up with a gasp. The sharp intake of breath burned her throat, which felt raw even though she had been sleeping. She was drenched with sweat and she could feel the tears still wet on her eyelashes. Above her was the dark canvas of her tent, and Solas. His face was drawn with concern and he put a gentle hand to her face, wiping a tear from her cheek with his thumb. 

“You were calling out. Are you all right?” he asked. The sight of him there, alive, and with her was overwhelming when the sight of him dead on the floor was still so fresh in her mind. She touched his face with a trembling hand and drew it back sharply as if she had just touched fire. She tried to speak, to answer him, but the words turned to sobs in her throat. Fresh tears spilled out of her eyes, and the quiet sobs that had managed to escape became huge, racking, and hysterical. Solas pulled her in close to him, cradling her against his chest. She felt his strong arms around her, gently rocking her against him as she continued to pour herself out to him in sobs that were muffled against his tunic. She heard his voice rumble in his chest as he comforted her softly in old Elvhen. At last, when she felt as if she were cried out, she was able to pull away and face him on her own.

“It was a nightmare, it was awful,” she said. He took her hand and squeezed it, a strange look of pain in his eyes. “You were - you were dead. Everyone was dead. My clan, they - they were enslaved. I tried to find you, I could sense you, but I couldn’t get to you. It must have been magic.” The pain in Solas’ eyes deepened and he took his hand away. “I think something was interfering with it. What could interrupt the magic of the pendant?” Solas wrapped his arms around his knees and ducked his head.

“The pendant only responds to my magic, so far as I know,” he said quietly. 

“But then how -” Allara started. She looked at him, his face full of pained remorse. “You?” He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed deeply. 

“I didn’t realize how much you were suffering. You were so tired when we got back from the Winter Palace, I thought it must have just been the stress working itself out.”

“You heard me calling? In the Fade?” she asked, incredulous. 

“I had other matters that needed to be attended to, I found you as soon as I could,” his voice was helpless, pleading. She stared blankly at the floor at his feet. 

“You - you blocked me from finding you? Purposely?” she whispered, directing her question to the floor. Several long seconds passed before he spoke.

“It was necessary. I do not expect you to understand.”

“I needed you.”

“I am sorry.”

Allara stared at her marked hand, her eyes soft on the faintly glowing green mark just beneath her skin. She didn’t think she could possibly feel worse than she had in the nightmare, at least she could count that all as a cruel illusion. This was real. She was fine, obviously. She was alive, he was alive, they were all safe in the Inquisition camp, not murdered in Skyhold, but the betrayal was still there. It was real. She shook her head violently, refusing to accept the thought. He couldn’t have meant what he said. It couldn’t be as blatant a disregard for her as she thought. She looked up at him, and he could not meet her eyes. Maybe - 

No, she realized. He knew what he had done, and it was clear that he expected her to react in some way. Was he expecting more tears? Anger? Violence? She had called out to him in the worst nightmare she’d ever had and he had ignored her. He had intentionally prevented her from coming to him the way he himself had given her the means to do. He had effectively, if unintentionally trapped her in the nightmare. Maybe it was true and he didn’t realize how terrible it was, but what could she really believe? How could she put her trust in him now? She had the impulse to grab her things and leave him in the tent alone. She could bunk with Leliana and Josephine, answer their questions in the morning. She felt the anger rise up in her chest like fire in a dragon. Why should she have to go anywhere? She turned her teary, red-rimmed eyes to him.

“Get out,” she said. Her tone was quiet, dangerous. “I can’t look at you right now.” She could hear him swallow in the silence that followed. 

“Allara, I am -”

“Get. Out. Of my tent. Now,” her voice sounded exponentially calmer than she felt. He bowed his head to her, his eyes full of deep remorse, and he quietly untied the flap of the tent and went out into the night. 

Allara crumpled up a wool blanket and buried her face in it. The rough homespun absorbed the fresh, hot flood of her tears. She pulled the blanket tighter to her; it smelled like him.


	11. The Dawn Will Come

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Varric is a very good friend.

Allara woke just before dawn, as was her custom. She lay staring up at the canvas canopy of the tent. The first birds of the morning were beginning to rustle and sing. Hearing that as she awoke reminded her of living in the aravel, and she stifled a gasp as a sharp pang of mingled fear and sadness hit her. The vision of her clan in the nightmare refreshed itself in her mind. That’s all it was, she reminded herself, a nightmare. Clan Lavellan is fine wherever they are, she thought, and they are very capable of taking care of themselves, as she knew well. 

Allara sat up and massaged the stiff muscles at the back of her neck. She didn’t realize it was possible to feel more exhausted waking up than she had felt going to sleep. The sight of the empty bedroll next to hers made her heart sink all over again. She had no idea what she was going to do about her hurt feelings, or if she should do anything at all. In the peaceful, growing light of dawn, being angry with Solas about something he had done in a dream felt silly. At the same time, it was something he had actually done with purpose and not a figment of her subconscious or some shadow of the Fade. The images that her nightmare had shown her were still fresh in her mind, as was the way she felt. Those emotions were real, even if they were brought on by something that was not. She still couldn’t believe that he had purposefully ignored her calls for help. The very idea was still bordering on the unfathomable for her, but it had happened. What could he have possibly been doing that had been more urgent? A fresh flare of anger sizzled in the shadows of her thoughts. He would not tell her even if she asked, she knew. That knowledge certainly did not help. 

Allara shimmied into her leather breeches from her position on the tent floor, and then stood, pulling her hardened leather coat over her dust-colored tunic. An early morning hunt would provide her with some clarity. She hefted her bow, slung her quiver over her back, and ducked through the tent flap. 

Outside, the camp was still peacefully asleep. Allara could hear the muffled sounds of snores and breathing all around her and kept her footsteps as quiet as she could as she crept through the rows of tents. She spared a thought for where Solas might have gone for a moment before she pushed it to the back of her mind. That was not her concern. She paused at the horses and considered taking Prince for a moment. She petted his broad nose and giggled as he lipped her fingers before she decided it would be better to go on foot and stay close to the camp. Prince sighed his disappointment, and Allara made him a mental promise that she would take him on a long ride in the afternoon. 

She had leaped over the small bushes at the edge of the camp when she heard footsteps behind her. She turned to see Varric, fully dressed with Bianca over his shoulder walking purposefully toward her. She allowed him to catch up. 

“Good morning, Kitten,” he whispered. “I’m coming with you.” She thought about protesting, but the stubborn look on the dwarf’s face told her she wouldn’t get anywhere. The corner of Allara’s mouth turned up in a small smile and she jerked her head, indicating that he should follow her. They walked down a deer trail for a while in silence, enjoying the peace of the early morning. They both had their eyes open for tracks or other signs of game. Much of the larger game in the area was gone, having been over-hunted by the poor and the desperate of Halamshiral. Allara knew they would be lucky to find a rabbit or even a few quails, but the Inquisition camp wasn’t exactly low on rations. She suspected Varric knew that she was not out here out of practical necessity.

“Do you want to talk, or should I?” asked Varric. Allara raised an eyebrow at him. “All right, I’ll go. You all right, kid?” Allara rolled her eyes at him.

“Look Varric, I know what you’re trying to do and I appreciate the concern, but really it’s fine,” she said. Varric simply continued to look coolly up at her. She sighed. “I honestly don’t know,” she said finally. 

“I know the feeling,” he said. 

“He - I was - I had a nightmare,” she said, trying to explain. “It was terrible. Really awful. You know how Solas is able to manipulate the Fade,” she said.

“He never shuts up about it,” said Varric. Allara nodded.

“I called out to him from the Fade. I know how to reach him that way, but he never came. He did it on purpose. Said there was something more important he was doing,” she said. Varric looked taken aback.

“Is that what he said?” asked Varric. Allara tilted her head, weighing her answer. 

“Basically. I don’t remember exactly, but that was the gist. I can’t help but feel betrayed, you know?” said Allara. She looked at him, her face full of emotion. Saying it out loud made it real, and she realized that’s exactly how she felt.

“I do know. Listen, I’m the wrong person to talk to about dreams, but I know a fair deal about betrayal,” he said, gravel in his voice. 

“I just still can’t believe - how could he have done that to me? And I know that he won’t tell me exactly what he was doing. I know that. He’s all intimate and perfect right up until the point where you want to know something he doesn’t want to tell you,” she said, animating her words with her hands. Varric nodded, listening. 

“That - is not all together surprising,” said Varric. 

“Isn’t it?!” asked Allara sharply. “I tell him everything. There’s nothing I would keep from him, and yet as soon as I ask him something too personal, he shuts me out. There’s a wall there. He won’t let me in. How am I supposed to deal with that?”

“It seems to me like what you’re actually angry about goes beyond whatever he pulled in your dream,” said Varric. 

“I needed him and he wasn’t there,” she said, exasperated. They continued to walk, both having given up pretense of hunting. From the hill they had reached, they could see the dawn reflecting off the ancient stone walls of Halamshiral. Allara stopped a moment to stare off at it. 

“He loves you, Kitten,” Varric said softly. “Everyone can see that. You know I’m not Chuckles’ biggest fan, but I know that there must have been something real important keeping him from running straight to you. As for everything else,” he sighed, “he must have a good reason for keeping that from you as well. We all have stories we’ll never tell; some of us just have more than others.” He absentmindedly patted his crossbow with a gloved hand. Allara broke her gaze away from Halamshiral to turn to Varric with a sad smile. 

“Thank you, Varric,” she said. 

“Any time,” he said. “Not that I’m saying you should let him off the hook too easy. I think you’re absolutely right to hang him out to dry for at least a little while.” Allara laughed, and Varric smiled, pleased. He started walking back toward the camp and, after a minute, she followed.


	12. Trouble In Val Royeaux

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sera tells the Inquisitor of some trouble in the Val Royeaux alienage she heard about at the Winter Palace.

The Inquisition camp was just waking up as Allara and Varric returned. The savory smell of breakfast wafted to their noses and Allara’s stomach growled audibly. Food would make her feel better; it usually did. By the fire, Bull and Krem tended the griddle, turning cakes of shredded potatoes and spiced sausages over on the hot surface and seasoning them by turns. Josie yawned next to them, bleary eyed, her hair still in its night time braid down her back. She stared at a kettle on the fire as if willing it to boil faster. Her fingers trailed over the lip of the tin that held her Antivan breakfast tea. Dorian stood behind her, his empty mug ready, as he meticulously combed scented wax into his moustache with the aid of a hand mirror. 

Allara wondered what her companions would think if she told them that mornings in camp with them was the closest she felt to being home in the aravel with her clan. She chuckled softly at their imagined reactions, and decided to keep the remark to herself. They would return to Skyhold soon, and they would all be comfortable enough within the fortress’ strong walls and sheltering roofs. She sighed wistfully. She enjoyed having everyone together in the close quarters of traveling camp. Well, almost everyone, she thought, looking around for Solas. He had not yet returned.

She put her gear down and took a seat on a stump to wait for breakfast to be ready. As if on cue, Sera appeared, carrying two plates full of food. She gave one to Allara, who accepted it with cautious thanks. 

“Hey Inky,” said Sera, claiming the stump next to her for a seat. The young elf tore into her breakfast so quickly she missed Allara’s quizzical look.

“Sera?” asked Allara after a moment. Sera looked up for a moment, stuffing a stray shred of potato into her mouth with her finger. She made a sound that was probably “yeah?” but it was difficult to tell. Allara looked pointedly at the plate of food she brought her. Sera swallowed her mouthful.

“What? You’re not hungry?” she asked. 

“Since when do you bring me breakfast?” asked Allara, poking at the morsels on her plate with a fork. After a moment, she looked back up at Sera with narrowed eyes. Sera blinked.

“What? I didn’t put anything in it,” she said. Allara intensified her squint. “I didn’t! Iron Bull said I should be nice to you, so I - oh.”

“What?”

“I wasn’t supposed to say that,” said Sera, quickly piling more food into her mouth.

“Why? What did he say?” asked Allara, throwing glances over to Bull. He was busily doling out breakfast from the griddle to a line of soldiers.

“I’m not supposed to say that either!” hissed Sera through her teeth. Sera didn’t have to say, Allara already knew. It wouldn’t have taken a Ben-Hassrath to know that her and Solas got into it the night before. Waves of embarrassment crashed over her as she wondered how many of her companions had listened to her weeping into the wee hours of the morning. 

“She loves him, and he hurt her. She thought you weren’t supposed to hurt people if you love them. She’s afraid he’ll do it again,” Cole interjected, popping out from behind a tent. Sera jumped visibly and scowled at him. 

“Go away, Creepy,” she growled. 

“Sera wants to help,” he said cheerfully to Allara. She nodded soberly at him and he brightened before he skipped off, distracted by a rabbit digging a hole nearby. Sera didn’t bother to hide her scowl as she watched him leave. Allara wished she would be a bit more open minded, but she was mildly impressed that Sera put up with as much as she did. She had known far less tolerant elves in her life. Sera shuddered, cleared her throat, and turned again to Allara.

“Well, so happens I do have something I wanted to bring up. So that’s less weird, right? I need something from you, so I do you a favor. That’s how these things work, yeah?” said Sera, finishing off the last of her breakfast. Her tough demeanor did nothing to cover the brief worried look that ghosted over her face. 

“The gesture is much appreciated, Sera. Thank you,” said Allara, taking a large bite of fried potatoes. “What is it that you wanted to talk to me about?”

“You told me to come to you with stuff I found at the Winter Palace, yeah? Well I found something, I think,” she started. She seemed surprised when Allara waited patiently for her to go on instead of shutting her down. “The servants in Halamshiral, a lot of them have family in Val Royeaux. Well, in the alienage. Anyway, there’s scary stories coming out of that alienage these days.”

“How so?” asked Allara.

“There’s a sickness there, goin’ around. Some people are even calling it a plague. I had it from Shiala, one of the Empress’ hand maids, that her own family has been taken ill with it. And not just them, but everyone living around her too! It’s burning through healing supplies and there are never enough healers in the alienages, just hedge witches who are no good without their herbs.” Sera spoke faster and faster as if her words were an avalanche.

“Calm down, Sera,” said Allara, putting a hand on her friend’s shoulder. Sera took a breath and turned a worried face to Allara. 

“It’s bad, Inky. People are dying, and the Empress is just sitting on her pretty arse about it. The guards are just walling up the alienage, waiting for the sickness to do its damage,” she said, wrenching her hands. 

“Of course we’ll go to Val Royeaux,” said Allara. A glimmer of hope sparked in Sera’s eyes.

“Soon? ‘Cuz I know sometimes you say we’re gonna do something and we don’t get to it until forever, and -”

“Soon, Sera. I promise,” said Allara.

“Thanks, you know. It’s just the little people, they need someone like you,” said Sera. She scooted her foot in the dust, staring at the pattern she made there.

“People like us, Sera,” she said. Sera smiled at her feet. Allara stood up, gathering her and Sera’s plates to take to the dish basin. When she turned, she saw that Cassandra stood behind her, a grim expression on her face. When she walked, Cassandra fell into step with her. 

“We need to get back to Skyhold, Inquisitor,” said Cassandra. 

“Why did I know that’s what you were going to say? I presume you heard what Sera had to say?” asked Allara. Cassandra grunted.

“Part of it. It is regrettable, but we have pressing matters -”

“What could be more pressing than providing aid to citizens of Orlais in their time of need? Did we not just make an alliance with their Empress?” asked Allara. She dropped the dishes into the wash basin with a loud splash. Cullen looked up from his seat on a bench, where he was scrubbing grime off his armor. 

“Cullen, would you please explain to the Inquisitor that -” 

“Oh no, don’t you team up on me, Cassandra. Two can play that game,” said Allara. Cassandra balked.

“I would never team up!” said Cassandra. Cullen furrowed his brows at the two women, presumably deciding which stance was safest. 

“Would someone mind explaining what’s going on? Or shall I guess?” said Cullen, putting his work aside. 

“I am taking a team to Val Royeaux,” said Allara. Cassandra scowled at her. 

“Don’t you think you should discuss this with your advisors, Inquisitor?” she said. 

“I’m supposed to say ‘yes’, right?” said Allara. Cassandra made a disgusted noise. 

“We must regroup back at Skyhold to plan the next steps against Corypheus!” said Cassandra. Cullen’s eyes darted back and forth between the two. There was no room for his interjections, should he have had any. 

“I recognize that Cass, but meanwhile we are here in Orlais and I have been informed of a dire, time-sensitive situation!” Allara shouted. 

“The entire world is a dire, time-sensitive situation, Inquisitor!” Cassandra shouted right back. Both of them looked at Cullen simultaneously and the Commander jumped. 

“I, uh -” he started. He gulped and rubbed the back of his neck, collecting his thoughts. “I don’t see what harm there would be in the Inquisitor taking a detour. It will take us the better part of the week to get the camp straightened up and the soldiers ready to move out.” Cassandra stared daggers at him and he resumed working on his armor to avoid her gaze. 

“I only go to provide aid, Cassandra. Do you expect me to ignore people in need, elves in need? Especially after Emprise?” said Allara. Cassandra took pause at that. She remembered Emprise du Leon as well as anyone. Having to move on from the destroyed town without providing as much aid as they would have liked rubbed everyone the wrong way, and all to make it to Halamshiral in time for the Empress’ ball. Cassandra sighed, relenting. 

“Fine,” she said. “Who else are you going to bring?”

“Other than?” asked Allara.

“Well I’m not going to sit here and babysit the soldiers. No offense, Commander,” said Cassandra quickly.

“None taken,” said Cullen. 

“Sera will come with us, and I suppose whomever else wants to go,” Allara shrugged. 

She looked out across the camp, surveying the state of her companions. The breath caught in her chest when she spotted Solas by their tent, shrugging out of his pack. His eyes met hers and her heart leapt into her throat. She swallowed it along with the muddied guilt and anger she still felt. She wanted to run to him, she wanted to utterly ignore him. Cassandra followed her eyes and sighed when she saw what had caught the Inquisitor’s attention. 

“Oh, uh, Inquisitor, perhaps you could help me in the practice yard? Be my sparring partner?” asked Cassandra. Allara jerked her head toward the Seeker and blinked. She imagined trying to spar with Cassandra and smiled faintly, though her expression was still very much distracted. 

“Thanks for the offer, Cassandra, but I have something I need to take care of. Ask around for me about who wants to come with, will you? We’ll leave tomorrow morning,” said Allara. Cassandra nodded and Allara shuffled her boot in the dust for a moment, stalling, before she made her way back toward her tent.


End file.
